Golden
by Flaignhan
Summary: He's always preferred silver.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **My first venture into this fandom. I'm a bit in love with it at the moment. Hope you guys like this, let me know what you think!

* * *

**Golden**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

The sun is beating down hard on Paris today. She reclines on her blanket at the foot of the Eiffel Tower and peers over the top of her sunglasses at the hundreds of people buzzing around her. She hates these kinds of placements - all watching, no _doing_. Regardless, she follows orders, her eyes sweeping through the crowds to try and pick out something irregular.

She sees some long pale fingers slip into an unsuspecting pocket and extract a brown leather wallet, while the victim waits to pay for a cheap souvenir for his young daughter. Pickpocketing is _not_ irregular, but a pickpocket with milky white skin in Paris, in the middle of summer? That's a little irregular.

She glances up to see the face, her eyebrows twitched into a small frown, but when her eyes meet his green ones, her jaw drops, her sunglasses sliding down her nose. He's wearing jeans, of all things. Slim fitting jeans with a handful of holes in, and a dark green moth eaten t-shirt, its v-neck collar displaying a pale triangle of white chest. He freezes, the wallet in hand, his eyes locked on hers, and even from this distance, she can see that the pulse in his neck is rapid, panicked.

His victim reaches into his back pocket, then frowns, twisting to check his other pocket, and then his front pockets. All the while, his daughter stares up at him with large round eyes, her ice cream dripping down its wafer cone. And then the man turns. He sees Loki immediately, and grabs him by the collar, but Loki twists, Loki turns, and Loki runs.

The man follows in hot pursuit, huffing and puffing his way through the crowd. Loki's long legs carry him easily, while tourists with large cameras dangling from their necks frown in confusion.

"Stop!" the man shouts, his American accent glaringly obvious, even from the one word. "Stop that man!"

Natasha sighs and then, after a moment to take a breath, she is away, following their path nimbly through the crowd. She rushes past the man's wife and daughter, and the souvenir seller who has seen it all before. It feels good to run, to be doing something, and if she can haul in Loki, and by extension puts a stop to whatever scheme he's attempting to put in place this time, she won't be stuck people watching for much longer.

Loki obviously hasn't been in Paris for very long, for he has run down a narrow alley with a dead end. The man has Loki by the throat, his huge forearms tensed as he squeezes Loki's windpipe.

"Give it back!" the man snarls, a bead of sweat dripping down the side of his face, now shiny and red after unexpected exertion.

Loki shrugs, his eyes reddening at the edges, water brimming at his eyelids.

"What's going on?" Natasha calls clearly. The man's grip loosens momentarily, and Loki wheezes in a breath, though he does not seem thankful for it. Evidently he'd rather die at the hands of a middle aged man than find out what Natasha has planned.

"This little junkie has stolen my wallet!" the man shouts. "Get the cops! Quickly!"

Junkie? Natasha's eyes scan the crook of Loki's arm, but there are no bruises, no needle marks, nothing. It's a ridiculous thought anyway, but he's so much thinner than she remembers, the veins in his arms more pronounced than is healthy. So why isn't he fighting back? Why no vicious retorts? Why hasn't he thrown the man through the wall that's blocking his exit?

And why the _hell_ does he need to steal wallets?

Natasha approaches, and when she is level with the pair of them, she looks up at Loki, his features even more gaunt than she remembers. His eyes are sunken in his skull, with dark circles underneath them. "Loki, give him his damn wallet," she sighs.

Loki says nothing, his lips pressed together into a thin line of defiance.

"I won't tell you again," Natasha says quietly.

Loki reaches behind him, and then produces the wallet, balanced between his index and middle fingers.

"I'm calling the cops," the man says, taking his phone from his inside jacket pocket. Naively, he starts by dialling a nine, but Natasha puts her hand over his phone.

"You're in France," she says, "It's 112 for emergency services. And that won't be necessary."

"Excuse me ma'am but I think it _is_ necessary."

Natasha reaches into her bag and pulls out a badge. She's not sure which one it is, but it's heavy, and when she flashes it at him, he seems placated.

"Run along now," she says. The man takes one last look at Loki whose chest is heaving as he tries to regain his breath, and then departs. When he has turned the corner at the top of the alley, Loki slides down the wall, his head in his hands, and Natasha braces herself for some sort of attack, that deep down, she knows isn't really coming.

"Do I not even get a 'hello'?"

Loki looks up at her with bloodshot eyes, and then he pokes out his tongue, and Natasha's stomach turns. Her hand flies to her mouth, partly in shock, and partly to try and keep any vomit from surfacing. He closes his mouth and looks down at the ground again, running a hand through his hair, which is shorter than she remembers, and unkempt.

"Come on," she says, her hand closing around his forearm. She pulls him to his feet, and he refuses to look at her. "I'll buy you dinner."

She links her hand with his and keeps a firm hold of it. She's not letting him escape through a crowd. No way. He tries to wriggle out of her grip at first, like an impatient child, but her grasp is too strong, even for him. He skulks along beside her, not looking at her once, and she thinks that perhaps, the idea of dinner is good enough for him to put up with her company for an hour. Especially, it seems, if she's buying.

* * *

The restaurant is down a small quiet street just a couple of hundred yards away from the main touristy areas. Natasha scans the layout, making a note of the exits, before choosing a table in the corner, facing the door. Loki drops into the seat opposite her, and glances over his shoulder. Perhaps he is expecting an ambush, or maybe to be dragged away by SHIELD, or even by Thor.

A little old man wanders over with a notepad, his black bow tie having seen far better days. "Bonjour!" he says cheerfully. "Qu'est-ce je vous sers?"

"Bonjour," Natasha says with a small smile. "Two waters please?"

"Ah! Americans!" he says, the word just about distinguishable through his thick French accent. "And for ze eating?"

Natasha grabs a menu and glances down it. "I'll have the ratatouille and he'll have the..." she searches for something filling. "Steak au poivre."

"Oh he will?" the little old man says. "How is it you Americans say? Ze cat 'as stolen 'is tongue?"

There is a crash as Loki slams his hand on the table then stands abruptly, towering over the little old man, who takes a couple of doddery steps backwards.

"Sit _down_!" Natasha hisses.

Loki stares down at the old man for a few seconds more, then finally slides back into his seat.

"He's uh... he's been in an accident," Natasha says. "He can't talk. He's taken it pretty hard."

"_Oh_, I am sorry to 'ear zat, monsieur. I tell you what: I pick ze _best_ steak we 'ave, and I cook it _just_ how you like!"

"Medium rare," Natasha says, her eyes fixed on Loki. He's breathing heavily, and somewhere, in the back of her mind, or perhaps in her stomach, she's not particularly sure where emotions live, but deep down, she feels a little sorry for him. The loss of his voice must have hit him hard. To go from the god who relishes in having the last word, to the pickpocket who can't utter a syllable must be quite the fall from grace.

The old man hobbles away, barking out orders in rapid French, and Natasha reaches down and pulls her bag into her lap. She takes out a pen and notebook and slides them over to Loki, his head resting on one hand like a bored teenager, looks down at them, and then up at her.

"What's the deal with the..." she gestures towards her own mouth, and he pokes his tongue out. Natasha grimaces and sits back in her seat, trying to distance herself from it. It's black as lead, and looks as though it's rotting. It is in complete contrast to the paleness of his lips. It's shocking, and snake like, and seriously disturbing.

"Can you...I mean, can you _taste_? 'Cause if not then this is gonna be one hell of a wasted steak."

Loki stares at her for a moment, then raises his hand, his thumb and forefinger half an inch apart.

"What happened?"

His jaw locks into a surly expression, but Natasha just raises an eyebrow, and eventually he snatches the pen from the table, flips through the notebook (but finds nothing of interest, she's more careful than that) and smooths out a blank page before him. He begins to write, the tip of the pen flicking upwards frequently in extravagant flourishes that would be better suited to a calligrapher's pen or even a quill.

Natasha can't help but smile, and waits patiently for him to finish. Their drinks are served by a young girl whose eyes linger on Loki's sinewy arms. She catches Natasha's eye and hurries away again, Loki completely oblivious to her.

Finally, Loki slides the notebook across the table to Natasha and she looks down, initially unable to form the slanted, delicate lines into words. After a few seconds of frowning at the paper however, she gets used to his style. Whether it's a product of being an Asgardian or just the fact that he's a prince, she doesn't know. What she does know, however, is that his English is harder to read than Russian, Arabic, or even Hindi.

_My father, in his infinite wisdom, decided that the only course of action upon my return was to send me back down to Earth, stripped of all my powers. I'm mortal. I'm weak. I can't even speak. At least when he did this to Thor (who had also been warmongering, might I add) my beloved brother retained the power of speech. I'm powerless. I landed here and I'm stuck here. Unless you take me to Fury of course, which will be barrels of fun I'm sure. _

"Will your tongue ever...go back?"

He nods, and pulls the pad towards him once more.

_When I've learned my lesson, apparently._

Their food is brought over at this point, which is probably a good thing, because the only comment Natasha could think to make was that the chances of him getting his tongue back were zero. As soon as the plate is set in front of him, Loki grabs his cutlery and wolfs down his steak in a matter of minutes, while Natasha just stares in shock, her ratatouille untouched. When he looks up, the majority of his food gone, he shrugs at her frown and slightly open mouth.

"When did you last eat?"

He swallows his final mouthful and then downs half of his water in one go. When he's done, he pushes the plate away and takes the notebook again.

_Scraps now and then. What I can afford from stealing. Nobody has physical money and the cards are useless without a password. My last real meal was in Asgard._

"How long ago?"

_Three months._

Natasha closes her eyes. Even the worst criminals get three square meals a day. No wonder he's so thin, no wonder his cheekbones look as though they could cut glass. He can't even talk his way into a job to _try_ to earn a decent living. She knows that Thor was sent to Earth as a punishment, stripped of his powers, but surely Odin knows he's messed Loki up enough with his favouritism? Surely the solution isn't to punish Loki infinitely more severely than Thor? _Surely_?

"Where do you sleep?"

Loki puts down the pen and sits back in his chair, folding his arms.

"You think I can do worse to you than this?" She gestures at him, at his dishevelled clothes, his emaciated frame, and his lank, greasy hair. His jaw juts out in childish defiance, his arms still crossed over his chest, and Natasha rolls her eyes and reaches down for her bag. She throws the notebook and pen back in, takes thirty euros from her purse and places it on the table. Loki's eyes linger on the money, and then, as if he realises what he's doing, he shudders a little and looks back up at Natasha.

"Show me where you're sleeping. I'm not gonna tell anybody you don't want me to."

He doesn't move.

"Come on, I just bought you dinner, the least you can do is give me a tour of your place."

He gets up and stalks towards the door, and Natasha follows, waving her thanks to the little old man. Loki is out the door quickly, weaving through the crowds apparently not caring whether Natasha's keeping up or not. He doesn't look back once. Occasionally he'll reach out a hand and pilfer a wallet in the blink of an eye. Natasha doesn't say anything. If she'd not had a decent meal for three months she'd be stealing wallets too. Or maybe holding up a bank at gunpoint...

He leads her down progressively darker, narrower and emptier streets, until he stops in front of a grimy building with boarded up windows. He pulls a key from his pocket and opens the front door. It's dark inside, and Natasha follows him in, her nose twitching at the sickly sweet smell of rotting wood. Loki climbs the creaky stairs, and on the half landing, in a darkened corner, a bored looking girl with chapped lips is being fucked against the wall by a greasy haired man. The girls give Loki a nod of greeting, which he returns, and continues past the pair of them without batting an eyelid.

On the third floor, Loki leads the way to the end of the corridor, where a narrow wooden door awaits, a shiny brass padlock securing it. Loki takes out another key and unlocks it, pushing open the door and finally turning to face Natasha. He gestures for her to go inside, and she glances at him warily before sliding past him and entering the room.

It's not as grim as she expected. It seems he's made some sort of attempt to clean it. There is a double mattress on the floor in the corner of the room, and while the sheets on it are faded with an eighties looking design, they are clean, and well looked after. The floorboards, unlike the corridor, are clear of rubbish and dirty footprints. There is a small table by the window, on which rests a plastic bag of brioches. Next to it is a sink with a couple of rusty looking taps. She supposes this is the kitchenette. Two t-shirts hang over a radiator on the far wall, and Natasha thinks she might be right in assuming that Loki's entire wardrobe consists of three t-shirts and a pair of jeans. In the corner next to the bathroom door, the are some canvases leant against the wall. She sees a few splashes of colour, but a white sheet is concealing most of the pictures.

When she turns around, he's not there, and it is a moment or two before she realises he's sitting cross legged on the mattress, sorting through the contents of his day's hoard. He reaches behind him and grabs his pillow, feeling inside the cotton case until he grabs a handful of money. He counts it out, adds thirty euros to it from his earnings for the day and puts it aside.

"What's that? Rent money?"

He nods, counting out the remainder of his money, fiddling with the little gold coins and dividing them into piles.

"And the rest can go on food?"

He waves a hand in a 'sort of' motion. He has about twelve, maybe fifteen euros left after rent, and Natasha knows that won't last. She takes her purse from her bag and pulls out the notes. She has seventy-five euros, and she tosses them down onto the mattress. He doesn't touch them, and Natasha thinks it's ridiculous that he'll quite happily take money that doesn't belong to him, but he won't lay a finger on money that's given to him.

"What, you think this is a trap? You think the money's got some sort of snare on it?"

Loki raises an eyebrow and Natasha sighs heavily, taking a seat on the mattress next to him. She can feel a spring digging into her, and she has no idea how he can actually sleep on this thing, but decides that reminding him of his awful situation won't do anyone any good.

"Look," she says quietly. "You know what I've done. I have no secrets from you, however much I wish I did. But...I turned it around. With help, of course. I could never have done it without help."

She considers, just for a moment, reaching out to touch his arm. It seems like the human thing to do, but she's not sure that'd wash with him. And then she sees him bite the inside of his lip, his jaw trembling minutely. Before she knows what she's doing her hand is on his forearm, her thumb brushing gently against his skin as she tries to ignore how skeletal he is.

Loki pulls away from her, slumping face down onto the mattress and pulling the pillow over his head. It doesn't disguise his crying. His shoulders shake with every sob, though he is unable to make a sound. Natasha watches him, her insides squirming uncomfortably. This isn't going to reform Loki, this is going to _break_ him, and by breaking him, Odin is only going to further Loki's belief that he has always been the unwanted child. She has always been able to understand why Loki is so damaged, but this is the equivalent of amputating an arm because of a sprained wrist.

After a few minutes, Loki's shoulders still, and he begins to take deep breaths, his face still buried in the mattress. When his breathing evens out, and his knuckles are no longer white as he clutches the pillow, Natasha speaks.

"You want a job?"

He becomes very still.

"I'm not messing with you. I'm tracking down a guy who's been linked to some serious lab break-ins and I need an extra pair of eyes."

Loki sits up, still facing the wall, his hands moving to wipe at his face. When he turns his, eyes are red, though Natasha doesn't let her gaze stay on them. If she embarrasses him, he'll kick her out of here faster than she can blink.

"A hundred euros a day. And I'll buy you breakfast, lunch _and_ dinner."

He turns to look at her and his expression suggests that he doesn't believe her.

"It's not gonna be for long, maybe just a week, but that's seven hundred euros. And you can stay in my hotel if you like. It's a little more fit for a prince than this place..."

A muscle twitches in his jaw and she knows she's said the wrong thing. He doesn't react in any other way however, and she knows that it's a huge improvement on his previously volatile nature.

He gestures for the pen and paper and Natasha takes them out of her bag, handing to them. He flips to a blank page and quickly scrawls one word.

_Why?_

"You're gonna get sick if you're not eating. You're gonna get sick and you'll die."

_I think that's the idea._

Natasha's stomach drops with a jolt. She shakes her head. "No, no way. That is _not_ the idea." He starts to write but Natasha doesn't wait for his response. "No matter what you might think, your father loves you. Your brother loves you. You've done some pretty crazy shit that's caused a lot of damage and this is a really shady way of teaching you a lesson, but they have _not_ sent you to die."

_Heimdall watches. He can see where I'm living. What I'm doing. What I'm _not_ eating. He knows the life I lead. And yet here I am, three months after my exile, stealing whatever I can to survive._

"Maybe that's why you're still here. Maybe it's because you're stealing."

_And the alternative?_

"Take this job."

_And after that?_

"Your seven hundred should last you a little while. We can think of something else in the meantime."

_Will you be in trouble for helping me?_

Natasha shrugs. "Only if somebody finds out."

A ghost of a smile catches at his lips, but it's gone as quickly as it came. He sits still for a moment, his knees pulled up to his chest. He's never looked so small, and Natasha's sure that no one would ever have expected him to fall this far, and this hard. And then, he reaches out one of his large pale hands, and Natasha takes it in her own. They shake, and Natasha offers him a smile.

Understandably, she thinks, he's not quite at the stage where he's ready to return it.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Not proofread because I'm heinously late for work. Will probably go through it later, but I don't _think_ there are any glaring errors. Let me know what you think!

* * *

**Golden**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

They get some looks when they walk through the lobby. Fussy middle aged women stare openly while their boat shoe wearing husbands raise eyebrows. Natasha just strides ahead, Loki skulking along beside her, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. When they reach the lift, the doors slide open straight away, and Loki steps in ahead of Natasha. She smirks. Obviously some of his entitled princely habits remain.

When they reach the room, she slides her card into the reader and as soon as the LED flashes green, Loki pushes the door open and goes inside. And then he stops. This one room, of hundreds in the hotel, is bigger than his entire apartment. Natasha feels something that might be guilt twinge inside her chest. The bed is covered with plump pillows and decorative throws, the material soft to the touch. It is ridiculously extravagant, but the SHIELD budget has always managed to stretch to good accommodation.

"If you wanna take a shower or have a bath or something, I can have them launder your clothes. There's a robe in there, I mean... just do what you want. Make yourself at home."

He wanders into the bathroom and soon she hears the sound of running water. He closes the door and reappears a few minutes later, clad in a fluffy white dressing gown, and places his neatly folded clothes on the bed. He gives Natasha a nod of what she assumes to be thanks, and then disappears again. Natasha takes the canvas laundry bag from inside the wardrobe and places his clothes inside, before pulling the drawstrings shut. She calls room service, and within thirty seconds, a maid is at the door.

She loses track of how long he spends in the bath, but she does hear him test out the jacuzzi jets, and then grow bored of them quite quickly. At long last, she hears the water start to drain away, and a few minutes later he appears in the doorway, his hair roughly towel dried, the damp strands clinging to his face. He looks healthier, and Natasha wonders if the shadows under his eyes had been exacerbated by dirt and grime. She can't imagine the shower at his place is particularly proficient at getting rid of the dirt that he must pick up just from being in his apartment. He's starting to look a little more human now, though she doesn't say that to him. If looks could kill, she knows that would be the thing to say to ensure her certain death.

He collapses onto the bed, not caring that his damp hair will soak the pillow, and crosses his long legs at the ankle. He stares at the ceiling, his hands resting on his stomach, clasped together, and Natasha watches him. She knows she will not sleep tonight. There's still a part of her that thinks he might try to kill her if he gets his chance, despite their handshake, their unspoken agreement.

There is a quiet knock at the door and Natasha pushes herself off of the sofa and goes to answer. It is the same maid, holding a clear bag with Loki's clothes folded neatly inside. Natasha thanks her, and reaches into her jacket to find her last few euros. She gives her the coins and the maid smiles gratefully, before curtseying and turning away.

Natasha unzips the bag and takes out Loki's t-shirt to put on one of the hangers in the wardrobe. It is soft, with a marl effect, the thin material flowing over her hands as though it were water. The thinness of the t-shirt however gives room for concerns about what he wears on the colder days, and soon, her finger finds one, two, three small holes in the fabric.

She turns to look at him, and discovers he is already asleep, his breathing deep and even. She glances up at the clock - it's nine thirty, there's still plenty of evening left. With that thought in mind, she picks up her bag, dips her head under the strap and adjusts it so it sits comfortably across her body. Then, she moves to the door, switches out the light, and leaves him to get his rest.

It's dark when she returns. He hasn't moved from his spot on the bed, though the room has grown cold since her absence, and so she folds the duvet over him. She's not sure he appreciates how frail his human form is, and she's not prepared to deal with an Asgardian's first bout of man flu. She has patience, but not that much.

She moves to the window and pulls it shut, careful not to make a sound. Then, she opens the wardrobe, takes one of the spare blankets, and settles down on the sofa, confident that she'll wake long before Loki does. She doesn't fall asleep however. She lays awake, wondering how many times Fury will say 'fuck' when he (inevitably) finds out about this. She wonders too what Clint would say, whether he would laugh at her for caring about silly things, or whether he would understand why she feels the need to prop Loki up when he is at his lowest, or, worst of all, whether he would find her actions unforgivable, given all that's happened in recent history.

Snarky remarks from Tony fill her head, and she can see Bruce's eyes, making a quiet, unbiased appraisal of the situation. And then there's Steve, who will try so hard to see what she sees, but even she can't really be sure of why she's doing what she's doing. What she sees is a broken child. She knows what it is to be lost, and worse, knows what it is to be lost to yourself. She's not sure how she can put that into words that the others won't laugh at. She learned long ago that by placing herself in the world of men, she is always walking a tightrope of credibility.

Expressing any kind of emotion, or feeling, or any type of thinking that isn't sharp, cold logic, is the best possible way to ensure the rope snaps under her feet.

And yet, as she watches him, his fingers curled around the top of the duvet, the hollows of his eye sockets and the sharpness of his cheekbones thrown into sharp relief by the moonlight pouring through the gap in the curtains, she knows she cannot leave him to suffer for any longer. Not when she's seen him sob his heart out into a second hand pillow.

* * *

Morning comes slowly, and Natasha sits up, rubbing the stiffness out of her neck. To her surprise, Loki is already awake, and perusing the room service menu. Natasha smirks.

"We'll get breakfast on our way to the tower," she says. "We're not on vacation."

Loki shrugs and returns the menu to its place on the bedside cabinet. He then looks towards the shopping bags at the foot of the sofa and raises an eyebrow.

"I thought you could do with some stuff that doesn't have holes in," Natasha says quietly. "If you don't like it...well, it's tough. Beggars can't be choosers." She tosses the bags to him and he catches them deftly, his reaction speed not having suffered like the rest of him has. As he begins to pull the clothes from the bag, she feels almost embarrassed. She doesn't do _nice things_, and here she is, doing _nice things_ for the guy that tried to kill her and her friends.

"I'm not gonna walk around Paris with you dressed like a hobo," she adds, and she gets up from the sofa, stretching her arms high above her head, arching her back until a few of her vertebrae crack quietly back into their preferred places. Tonight, she decides, she's going to get at least half of that bed.

"I'm going for a shower," she says, and she grabs a fresh set of clothes from her suitcase and disappears into the bathroom.

As the water cascades down her back, she tries to clear her head and focus on what she's here to do. An extra pair of eyes to scan the crowds at the tower will be useful, and she's positive that Loki has a talent for watching. He is the opposite of Thor in that; Thor who prefers to act first and think later, while Loki is cunning and calculating. Observing other people goes hand in hand with those traits.

The hair dryer provided by the hotel is lousy, and it takes forever for her hair to even begin to look presentable. Once she's satisfied, she quickly applies some lipstick, a little eyeliner, and some mascara, before sliding on her sunglasses and appraising herself in the mirror. She carries just the right amount of aloofness to be the sort of girl that'll spend the entire day lounging in front of the tower, but not so much that she wouldn't be seen dead sitting on the ground.

She exits the bathroom and closes the door behind her, turning to see Loki, holding up two new t-shirts in front of him as he regards his reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Natasha is pleased to see that his new jeans fit, and the fact that he's wearing his new trainers suggests that she guessed his shoe size right too. After much scowling at his reflection, Loki eventually tosses the white t-shirt to one side and pulls on the navy blue one. He turns, and blinks, apparently not having realised Natasha was watching him. She clears her throat and nods her approval at his chosen ensemble. He pulls on his new jacket, which although light, is leather and will keep the wind at bay come the colder months.

Natasha reaches into one of the bags still on the bed, and finds what she's looking for. She throws it to him, and he looks down, one eyebrow rising sceptically. However, he puts the sunglasses on and whirls around to look at himself in the mirror.

"You can't be a secret agent without shades," she says.

A muscle in Loki's jaw twitches, perhaps at the idea of being on the side of the good guys, perhaps at the fact that sunglasses must be ridiculous to him. He walks over to the desk and picks up the complimentary notepad provided by the hotel, and holds it out to her. She takes it, and looks down. What she sees surprises her.

_Thank you for the clothes._

"You're welcome," she says, after a moment of processing his words. "It's fine. Really."

She passes him back the pad and he puts it down on the desk, then takes the key card and holds that out to her. She places it into the front pocket of her bag and zips it shut. There's nothing left to prepare now. She's about to go and do some spying with Loki Odinson.

As she opens the door to the corridor beyond, she knows that she may be about to embark upon the biggest mistake of her life.

* * *

Her iPad contains all the information that she requires for the mission, and so, after they have settled on a new blanket, a box of fresh croissants between them and a couple of lattes in paper cups, Natasha opens the photographs of the men they're supposed to be seeking. She shows Loki, who frowns at the images, swiping between them and committing them to memory.

He holds out his hand for the notebook but Natasha doesn't give it to him.

"Why here?" she asks.

He nods.

"Because who's going to pay attention to two men meeting in a crowd of hundreds? Who's going to get a good line of sight on them?"

His expression contorts into one of agreement, and he opens his mouth, as though to ask another question. The dark tongue moves but no sound comes out. Natasha reaches into her bag for the pad, another twinge of guilt making her stomach twist uncomfortably. Perhaps he has grown used to not talking because no one has been talking to him. And now, now he's in the middle of a conversation that holds some interest for him, he just can't stop himself from opening his mouth.

He writes quickly, the flourishes of the pen less frequent as he hand speeds across the paper.

_What have they stolen? And why are your people so interested? What do we do if we seem them?_

"You don't need to know what they've stolen, or why we're interested," Natasha tells him firmly. "You're here to look for them. That's what you get your hundred euros for." From the corner of her eye, she's sure she sees Loki elicit a silent huff. "And if you see them, you let me know. And I go for a walk. _You_ stay here. _You_ guard the croissants."

Loki huffs again, but Natasha doesn't care. She makes herself comfortable and begins to watch.

* * *

The day passes without a sighting. There is a false alarm, which Natasha only has to get within twenty feet of to realise it's just a couple of clueless guys sitting on a bench. They return to the hotel that evening, after stopping off at a bistro for dinner, and Natasha makes sure to collapse onto her side of the bed as soon as they get into the room. Loki doesn't bat an eyelid, and toes off his shoes before making himself comfortable on the other side. Natasha grabs the TV remote and settles on the first unheard of 80s B-movie that she can find in English, and Loki seems content to sit and watch it. He doesn't ask any questions, he doesn't even ask for his money, and Natasha can't help but feel that something isn't right. It's unlike him to be so placid, so content with stillness. She can't get her head around it.

"Okay," she says, "What are you planning?"

He turns to look at her, and his eyebrows twitch into a frown.

"You're _quiet_," she says.

He pokes his tongue out pointedly and Natasha rolls her eyes, her stomach churning at the sight of it. "You know what I mean."

He shrugs and turns back to the TV, where a guy with a mullet is enthusiastically kissing a girl with a perm. He stares at the screen, his face expressionless.

"They've broken you, haven't they?"

He turns to look at her again, his green eyes piercing hers. He holds the gaze for a moment, then, when Natasha doesn't break the eye contact first, a muscle twitches in his jaw, and he turns back to the TV once more.

"Did you really think they'd let you die down here?"

He continues to stare at the TV, his jaw locked into place as he takes deep, steadying breaths. Natasha has the horrible feeling that his answer to her question, could he talk, and should he _want_ to answer, would be 'yes'. Despite the fact that _she _knows it's not true, the biggest problem is, and has _always_ been that Loki genuinely believes it.

Deciding that it's probably best to leave the subject alone, Natasha gets up, heads over to her suitcase and grabs her pyjamas, before going into the bathroom to get changed. When she returns, the credits are rolling on the movie, and Loki is scowling at the remote. He presses one of the buttons and a settings screen comes up. Natasha watches as he presses random buttons, trying to close it, and she tries not to smile. In the end he throws the remote down on the bed, lifts himself up to pull the duvet out from underneath himself, and then wraps himself tightly in it. Natasha shakes her head, picks up the remote and closes the settings menu. She moves over to Loki and crouches down, so she's looking him in the eye.

"That changes what you're watching," she says, gesturing to the up and down arrows on the left side of the remote. "And these ones change the volume," she adds, pointing to the arrows on the right side. "And this one," her thumb hovers over the red button at the top, "turns it off." She turns off the TV, places the remote on the bedside cabinet and walks around to her side of the bed.

"You're gonna have to give up some of that duvet," she says, tugging at the edge of it. He releases his grip on it and Natasha pulls enough over to cover herself, then switches out the light.

"Goodnight Loki."

In return, she receives a huff.

She smiles.

* * *

It's not until their fourth day of watching, when Natasha is so bored that she's resorted to playing arcade games on her iPad, her eyes scanning the crowds over the top of it, when something happens.

Loki drops his croissant, and it lands on the blanket with a soft _flump_. He grabs Natasha's arm, and the jolt makes the pin ball on her screen drop past her bottom two flippers. She sighs impatiently, but then she looks up. There is a group of school children in the way, but when they clear, their weary looking teacher shrugging and tucking his clipboard under his arm, Natasha can see a bench. There are two men sitting on it, both wearing dark glasses. One of them, however, has a distinctive brown birth mark on the side of his neck, and it's all Natasha needs to slowly get to her feet. She looks beyond them and sees a large queue for an ice cream stand, running parallel to the bench.

She squeezes Loki's shoulder then weaves her way through the crowd, trying to look as much like a clueless girl as possible. She sidles awkwardly around a family, her gaze never leaving the two on the bench. Eventually she comes to the queue for the ice cream and joins it, her ears trying to filter out the chatter of people around her, the shouts of children, and the sound of traffic in the distance.

"How much more do you need?"

Natasha takes a step forward as the queue moves down, her breathing slow and steady.

"One more should do it."

"And then?"

"Well, it'll take a little while but -"

"But you can deliver."

Natasha soon reaches the front of the queue, buys two ice cream cones, then moves away from the stand, dawdling as she puts her purse back into her bag. She licks her own ice cream, and as she does so, she sees a folded note pass from one to the other. He tucks it into the inside breast pocket of his jacket, and Natasha moves as quickly as she can without being noticed. In seconds, she's back with Loki, and she passes him his ice cream.

"Okay Artful Dodger," she says. "You're up."

His eyebrows draw into a frown, but she ignores it.

"The guy with the brown jacket, inside pocket on his left side. There's a piece of paper that I _need_. You get that, and we're finished. You get that, and you get a _thousand_ euros for all your hard work."

Loki licks his ice cream, catching a drip that's about to slide down the side of the cone. There is a pause, and then he nods, his eyes fixed on his target, who, after another short exchange with his contact, gets up from the bench, and heads towards the streets.

Loki rises gracefully, and as he wanders off, Natasha reclines onto the blanket, enjoying the heat of the sun on her face. She could go after the guy herself, but she figures that Loki needs to earn his keep. Plus, he's had a lot of practice picking pockets of late, and it would be a shame not to use his newfound skill.

Minutes pass, and Natasha tries not to chew on her lip. She knows that Loki has to wait for the right moment, knows that he can't just rush in, but even so, she would feel better if she knew the progress, could keep track of what he was up to, or even if she'd gone herself. Is the lure of a thousand dollars enough to make sure he comes back with the goods?

When half an hour has passed with no sign of him, Natasha tries to keep calm. How long does she wait? What if something's happened to him? What if his victim was armed? Her heart races, while all around, people stroll and take photographs and smile and laugh and she can't _handle_ _it_.

And then she sees him. He's head and shoulders above most, his tall slender frame sticking out like a sore thumb, and she laughs, because he's really not the best person to send on a mission where discretion and the art of blending in is key. She can't glean any information from his expression, and when he reaches her, he grabs her by the arm, pulls her up, and without even stopping to collect the blanket or their coffees, he leads her away from the tower.

"What happened?" Natasha hisses. "Did you get it?"

She doesn't get an answer until they're a few streets away, and he tugs her into an alcove. From the pocket of his jacket he extracts two things - a folded piece of paper, and a brown leather wallet.

Natasha laughs and part of her wants to kiss him out of relief. She's not sure how that'll wash with him though, so she refrains, and keeps her joy to herself. She takes the wallet and opens it. There are credit cards, a driving licence, membership cards, all sorts of treasures that will go down well when she returns to SHIELD. There's also fifty euros in cash, and she hands that to Loki.

"Come on," she says. "It's payday."

Loki holds out his hand and gestures for the notebook. She gives it to him, and he rests it against the wall as he writes.

_You owe me another one of those cones. I sacrificed mine to the cause._

Natasha smirks. "You can have all the ice cream in Paris for this," she says, holding up the wallet and paper. "I need to call Fury though."

Loki scowls at the mention of the name, and Natasha ignores it, pulling out her phone and dialling the number.

* * *

"It's a cellphone," Natasha says, once they're back at the hotel. She switches it on and passes it to him. "So you can keep in touch."

He holds it up to his ear and mimes talking (or tries to talk, she's not sure which), his expression brimming with sarcasm.

"Yeah I _know_," Natasha says exasperatedly, "But you can _text_. It's like writing a letter, but quicker." She takes the phone, opens up a new message and types the word 'Hi', then clicks on her own name, the only one in his contact list, and hits send. Seconds later, her phone bleeps.

Loki frowns.

"It's easy. You can contact me any time, and I can stay in touch with you as well. There's credit on there, and more'll get added each month. It'll come out of my account so you don't need to worry about that."

Loki nods, and then begins to write his first text message. It comes through to Natasha's phone quickly, and says just one word.

_Thanks_.

Natasha smiles. "You're welcome."

She zips up her suitcase, pulls on her jacket, and checks her bag to make sure she's got everything she needs.

"Well, I guess this is goodbye," she says.

Loki looks up from his phone, then raises a hand in farewell.

"Don't be a jackass..." Natasha says, then she moves forward and hugs him. She doesn't _do_ hugs, not really, and if any of the guys saw her now, they'd be making childish 'ooooh!' noises. But, she figures that Loki could do with a little human contact, and she's not about to let her own narrow emotional range get in the way of his progression. At first, he holds his arms away from her, and after a few seconds he returns the hug gently, and awkwardly pats her on the back. She smiles and pulls away from him.

"Use it," she says, pointing at the phone.

He nods, and slips the phone into his pocket.

If she's being honest, half the reason she got him the phone is that she hopes, one day soon, it will ring, and she'll answer, and at the other end of the line, she'll hear his voice.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **This chapter is sponsored by Fox's Chunkie cookies and Cheesestrings. _Real a_peel_able biscuits._ What? Anyway, here we are. Thank you for the lovely reviews. You're wonderful. I hope you enjoy this chapter. =]

* * *

**Golden**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

Her apartment is quiet. It's very empty, and it's very cold. The cold, she doesn't mind, the emptiness, well, she's used to that, but the quiet...that's something that's never bothered her before. Upon her return, Fury had suggested she take a few days holiday before joining them on the investigation, to get over jet lag, recharge her batteries, and just have some time to herself. Fury's suggestion, however, manifested itself in the form of her access passes having a temporary block placed on them. She'd broken in on the first day, but Fury had stared her down, his eye cutting through her like a laser, and she had turned around and gone home.

Home, however, doesn't really _feel_ like home. It's never really been a home if she's honest, but it was always her _space_. It was where she could come to relax, to think, and escape the madness that is her life. But now, the silence presses in on her from all sides. She doesn't know what she expected, but it wasn't this.

She thinks, and it's a bizarre thought, but she thinks she might actually miss him. Not that he contributed much noise to their dealings with one another, but the presence of another person, on what is one of the loneliest jobs in the world was a nice change. Just the sound of him _existing _was so much better than all of this silence. She even misses his scowls, really. She misses being able to read what he's trying to say simply from the look on his face.

She pulls her phone out of her pocket and checks her messages, just in case she missed one. She's had nothing from him since the test text he sent in the hotel room though, and she sighs and slides her phone back into her pocket.

Natasha reaches over to the coffee table and grabs the remote. She finds something cheesy on the TV that's already half way through, and lays down on the sofa. She's not worried about him. Well, she might be, just a little, because he lives in a hell hole and can't even _speak_. What if he _does_ get sick and he can't tell a doctor what's wrong? What if they see his tongue and start biopsying it? What if they start treating him like a science experiment? What if -

_No_. Heimdall is watching. If things were that bad, surely Odin or Thor would intervene. Surely?

Her phone is in her hand again, and she wonders if she ought to text Loki, just to check in on him, just to remind him that she hasn't forgotten about him, despite being a good few thousand miles away. She puts her phone down, deciding that she'll leave it a few more days. Maybe he needs some space to sort things out a little. He's got a little money now, so hopefully that'll help him do _something_. What, she's not sure, but she hopes that whatever it is, it won't get him into trouble. Or her, for that matter.

* * *

It's a whole week before she hears from him. She's sitting in a meeting with Fury, Steve, Bruce and Clint, while Fury explains to Steve exactly why the lab case has been passed on to Interpol.

"But if we started it, surely we should see it through?" Steve argues. "We did the legwork, or, Natasha did, really. It just seems like a waste of -"

"It's not about _credit_," Fury says firmly. "It's about passing it on to the appropriate people."

"So why was it even with us in the first place?"

"The chemicals they were stealing _can_ be used to make some serious explosives," Bruce explains. "But, they can also be used to make some pretty hard drugs. We thought it was the former...turns out, they're just a couple of drug dealers, pretty big time, but not terrorists."

"But -"

"Drugs, Steve," Fury says. "_Not_ our division. We're going to be focusing on -"

"But what if they're using it as a front for -"

"Steve, you didn't see the amount of shit that they hauled out of that one guy's apartment. Street value of two and a _half_ million dollars."

Natasha's phone buzzes, and she looks down at it, recognising the number instantly. She slides her thumb across the screen to read the message and up pops a picture of an ice cream cone. She recognises the hand holding it, though it has a lot more colour since she last saw it. She smiles, and scrolls down, but there is no typed message.

"Something you'd like to _share_, Agent Romanov?"

"Not really," Natasha says, looking up to meet Fury's gaze.

"Well then put your damn phone away."

"Yes sir..." she mutters, and slips the phone into her pocket.

Despite the fact that Fury and Steve's argument, mediated by Bruce, continues for most of the session, Natasha sits there trying to keep her smile at bay. It's difficult, especially when she's so relieved to see even just his _hand_. The knot that had been forming in her chest over the past few days has loosened considerably.

If he's eating ice cream, then he's doing just fine.

* * *

She hates down time. She hates it with the force of a thousand burning suns. She hasn't watched this much TV since... _ever._ Her evenings are spent flicking through the channels, finding something to fill the silence. Sometimes she'll head out to a quiet bar with Bruce in an evening, but he seems to like silence as much as she has grown to hate it.

She takes her phone from the table, and, knowing it's around four o'clock in the morning for Loki, decides to text him anyway.

_How are you?_

She puts the phone back and carries on channel surfing. Seconds later, her phone bleeps, and she picks it up.

_Fine. You?_

Natasha chews on her lip.

_Bored as hell. Why aren't you sleeping?_

The reply comes almost instantly.

_Because my phone made a really loud noise when someone decided to text me in the middle of the night._

Natasha chuckles, but feels a twinge of guilt in her stomach. It's not enough to keep her from texting back though.

_Sorry._

_It's fine._

She wants to know how he's getting on, whether he's coping better now, and whether he thinks he'll be returning to Asgard any time soon. But to ask those questions outright will probably cause him to throw the phone out of the window because she'll be slapping him in the face with the one thing he doesn't want to think about.

_Picked any pockets since I saw you?_

Her thumb hovers over the send button and then she presses down. He won't mind answering that. Will he? Maybe he _has_ picked pockets, maybe he just does it for fun at the moment. Maybe it's as close as he can get to the chaos that he always so desperately craved.

The reply comes swiftly, and she can almost detect a hint of pride, as though his chest were puffed out while he typed the message.

_No. I've got a job._

Natasha's jaw drops. She never thought she'd see the day.

_Doing what?_

She impatiently taps her fingers on the sofa cushion while she waits for his response, and it's a few minutes before it comes through.

_I sit outside the Musée D'Orsay and draw pictures of tourists for money. _

Natasha doesn't know what to say. Loki, sitting in Paris, doing caricatures for tourists with more money than sense. It's almost an honest living, and she can't help the smile that forms on her face as she thinks about it. Even if he only makes thirty euros a day, it's still enough to make sure he eats well and can pay his rent without too much worry. The summer weather will bring him a lot of business, and she feels something in her chest, something bright, and she thinks she might be proud of him.

_That's amazing. The tourists won't last through winter though, so try not to spend _all_ your money on ice cream. _

She hates to be the rain cloud blocking his sunshine, and she hates to think that he's still going to be stuck in Paris, speechless, come winter, but more than that, she'd hate for him to go hungry again. She'd hate for him to go back to picking pockets and she'd _really_ hate for him to spoil all the progress he's made. Her phone bleeps, and another message comes through.

_I won't. Need to sleep now. Human bodies are pathetic. Goodnight. _

Natasha smiles, but it's with a heavy heart that she types her own 'Goodnight' and presses send.

* * *

There is a large glass of white wine waiting for her when she arrives at the bar. Bruce is sipping on a bottle of Bud light, which he puts down on a beer mat when she slides on the stool next to him. She has a taste of her wine and then nods her approval as the flavours swirl around inside her. She likes going out with Bruce. The others will always _always_ assume she wants a beer, because she's _one of the guys_ or vodka, for obvious reasons. Bruce doesn't assume though. Bruce has seen her get through a bottle of good pinot grigio in less than an hour. Bruce pays attention. Bruce knows about the little things.

"How are you?" he asks, his soft voice almost lost in the chatter of other patrons, and the clacks of pool balls colliding with one another.

"Good," she says. "I'm good. What about you?"

Bruce talks, and Natasha listens, and she doesn't interrupt, but she'll sometimes ask questions that will keep him talking. The fact that he talks so much, given the opportunity, worries her and relieves her at the same time. She doesn't like the idea that nobody else is asking him questions that don't involve nuclear physics.

"I'm sorry," he says, after a particularly long, but interesting tale about his time abroad. "Just tell me to shut up in future."

"Don't be ridiculous," Natasha says, and she waves over the bartender and orders them another round. Her phone bleeps, the screen lighting up, and she notices Bruce's eyes slide down to it. She recognises the number immediately and so she picks it up and reads the message.

_This is my view._

Attached is a picture. She recognises the landmark immediately, having spent hours upon hours lounging at the foot of it, eating croissants and drinking coffee. Unlike when she was there with Loki however, the place is deserted. The sky is a deep greyish blue, fading into a pale yellow, and in the distance, she can see the sun rising behind the Eiffel Tower, silhouetting it against the dawn sky. It's a beautiful photograph.

_Lucky bastard._

She takes one last look at the picture, then puts her phone face down on the bar. When she looks up, Bruce has an odd smile on his face.

"What?"

"I didn't know you had someone special in your life," he says, his smile growing. "Why so secretive?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she replies stiffly.

"Oh come on, I'm not gonna tell the others," Bruce says. "I'm happy for you, genuinely."

"It's not like that."

"Then what's it like?"

Natasha looks up at him, and gives him her hardest stare. "Complicated." She picks up her wine glass and takes a sip, not breaking eye contact with him.

"I don't think there's much that can be complicated about having a spring in your step."

Natasha nearly chokes on her wine. "_What_?"

Bruce leans back warily. "You've got a spring in your step...it's just...it's just a figure of speech."

"A _spring_ in my step?"

"That's Steve's phrasing...I'd take it up with him, maybe," Bruce back pedals, and grabs his beer for a distraction.

"_Steve_?"

"You keep smiling at your phone! You get text messages that aren't from Clint! Surely you thought someone would have noticed!"

"Clint's not my only friend in the world," Natasha replies sharply.

"_We_ know that," Bruce says, "But we were never sure if you did...until now, of course."

Natasha taps her nails against the bar, chewing thoughtfully on her lip.

"Look, forget I said anything," Bruce says, holding his hands up apologetically. "You wanna tell us stuff, you tell us when you're ready. But...we're happy for you. And I think you should remember that."

"It's not _like that_," Natasha says through gritted teeth. "_Really_."

"Okay, okay. That's fine. Just forget it."

"Who else knows?" she asks. "Or _thinks _they know, I should say."

"Steve."

"Anyone else?"

"Clint."

Natasha rolls her eyes. That Clint 'knows' really goes without saying. "What about Stark?"

Bruce pulls a face. "God _no_. He's far too wrapped up in his own projects right now."

"Well you tell Steve and Clint that it's _nonsense_, all right?" she says firmly. "I'm serious Bruce. _Nonsense_."

"Whatever you like," he says, before picking up his beer and downing the last of it. He gestures for another round to the bartender and Natasha takes a deep breath, resolving to be far more composed the next time she receives a text.

That's the trouble with being a spy. Your colleagues can never switch themselves off.

* * *

When the concierge hands her the package, wrapped in brown paper and secured with string, she wonders if she ought to get it scanned. She never gets mail. _Never_.

But then she sees the handwriting, a neat script full of flourishes and elegant strokes, and she knows immediately who it's from. She taps her fingers against the paper as she waits for the lift to take her up to her floor, and when she's finally inside her apartment, she tosses her bag onto the armchair, shakes off her jacket, and sits down on the sofa, package waiting in her hands.

She pulls on the end of the string and the knot falls apart. The paper drops the floor and Natasha gasps. What she had assumed to be a box is actually a canvas, and painted onto the canvas, the brush strokes clearly visible, the oil paints rippling on the surface, catching the light, is a portrait of her. She recognises the style immediately - the long strokes, the use of colour, even the way in which her own eyes stare at her from within the painting. It's so reminiscent of van Gogh that had she seen it in a gallery, had she not known that the woman in the portrait couldn't possibly have sat for it, she would think it were genuine.

There is a white piece of paper on the floor, which must have fallen out when she unwrapped her gift.

_This is how I earn a living. I hope you like it._

Natasha lets out a shaky breath. His talent is extraordinary. She's completely taken aback by the canvas, can barely believe her eyes. She'd thought that he'd just drawn the odd caricature for ten euros here and there but this...this is _beautiful_. He is ridiculously gifted, and she is amazed he ever _stopped_ painting in order to try and take over the world.

But then, she supposes, his paintings, no matter how beautiful, would have always been in the shadow of Thor's strength, his valour, and his bravery. She can't imagine that Odin has much time for art, can't imagine that Loki would ever have been taken aside and told just how wonderful he is. What she _can_ imagine though, and it makes her insides squirm, is that Loki's paintings were deemed worthless, _pointless_. She can imagine he was pushed towards other endeavours, things he had no passion for.

She can imagine that he was encouraged to be someone else entirely.

And then he was.

And then he was punished for it.

Her fists clench. She cannot stand the injustice of it all. But, she supposes with a sigh, his punishment has given him the space to do the things he wants to do, and find his own worth. If art has no value in Asgard, then she's quite happy for him to stay on earth and make his way here.

In fact, she's quite sure she'd prefer that.

She stands, and takes the canvas over to the fireplace, resting it carefully on top of the mantel. She has no personal effects in her apartment. Only clothes and necessities. She prefers it that way. This painting however, this, she'll make an exception for.

She steps back to admire it, and glances to the mirror above the fireplace to compare. He's gotten the shape of her face spot on. The whole thing is scarily accurate, except the painting is far more beautiful than her reflection. Her eyes drop down to the bottom right corner, where Loki has signed it. She frowns, and moves in for a closer look, and what she sees makes her think that it might not be so long before she _does_ hear his voice at the other end of the phone.

_Loki Odinson._


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **So I'm not sure when the next chapter of this will come out as I have genuinely destroyed my eyes by spending all my time when I'm not at work and staring at two monitors with a ton of code on them, staring at a laptop with a ton of story on it. Long and short of it is, I'm having a laptop ban at home (more or less) so all chapters are going to be handwritten from now on and typed up with my eyes looking anywhere but the screen. Which does mean that this will be liable to a few typos, probably. But hopefully not. Either way, I'm sure you can cope for the sake of my sight. Thank you all for your lovely reviews, massively appreciate them, and I hope you enjoy this chapter.

* * *

**Golden**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

It is a Friday evening. The air is humid and the sun glows orange in the sky as it descends behind the skyscrapers of the city. Natasha's just trying to make the jacket or no jacket decision when the buzzer to her flat sounds, loud and clear in the silence. She presses the door release button and unlocks her apartment door. A few minutes later, after she's decided that a jacket _won't_ be necessary the door opens and in walks Clint, the sleeves of his navy shirt rolled up to the elbows.

"You ready?"

"Almost." Natasha disappears into the bedroom and quickly sprays her neck and wrists with her perfume. She takes one last look in the mirror before heading out.

"Where are we meeting the others?" she asks.

Clint doesn't reply. He's standing next to the fireplace, peering at the canvas on the mantel. When he notices her presence, he turns to look at her, raising a finger to point at the painting. "What's this?"

"Souvenir from Paris," she says, her expression blank. "It was a good excuse to sit and watch."

Clint nods, the lie apparently showing no glaring errors to his logic. "I didn't see it last time I was here. Must have missed it."

"It's been in my suitcase for a while. Are you ready?"

Her phone vibrates in the pocket of her jeans and she pulls it out. When she sees the number, she forces herself to keep her face straight, no smile, no nothing.

_Can't sleep_. _What are you doing?_

"Something wrong?"

Natasha shakes her head and slides her phone back into her pocket. "Everything's fine," she says.

"Is that your boyfriend who's not you boyfriend?" Clint asks, the corners of his eyes creasing with his smile.

Natasha makes a sound of disgust and pushes past him. He starts chuckling loudly, and she pulls open the apartment door, waits for him to go ahead of her, and then slams it behind them.

* * *

Tony has ordered the most ridiculous pitcher that Natasha has ever seen. The liquid inside is bright blue, which can't be good, but he has a glassful and is sipping it through at least four straws. Steve leans forward to sniff his own glass apprehensively then pulls away quickly, his nose crinkled in distaste. Bruce appears to have stood his ground however, as he is nursing a bottle of beer. Tony immediately pours a glass of blue for Natasha and Clint, before they can even think about getting over to the bar to order something more palatable.

"Ms Romanov..." Tony says, sliding the glass across the table to her. She catches it, the blue liquid sloshing about inside. She glances up at Steve, who is holding his glass up to the light, inspecting it.

"And Barton..." Tony slides another glass to Clint. To Natasha's surprise, Clint downs half of the 'drink' within seconds, and Tony claps his hands together, then looks expectantly between Natasha and Steve, who eventually takes a tentative sip, then screws up his face in disgust.

"Can't I just have a beer?"

"No."

"But Bruce -"

"Steve, when _you_ can turn into an angry green giant, then you can choose to not partake in the group pitcher. But _until _that day -"

Steve tries to protest, and looks at Bruce for support, but he merely raises his bottle in a toast before taking a long swig of his beer. Steve sighs, pinches his nose, and then downs his glass, all in one. He slams the glass back down on the table, his face screwed up, and Tony takes the opportunity to refill his glass. When Steve opens his eyes and sees another half pint waiting to be consumed, he leans back in his chair and slides down in it, crossing his arms over his stomach.

Natasha takes a small sip and tastes artificial blueberry, a ton of sugar, and a hint of vodka, lost amongst the flavourings and unnatural colouring agents. She feels her phone vibrate in her pocket but ignores it. If one of them (Tony) snatches the phone from her and read her texts the worst that would happen would be that they'd figure out it was their sworn enemy she was talking to in the middle of the night, and at the very least, they would mock her to death for texting a guy in the middle of the night. She feels protective over the messages, like they're her and Loki's little secret, and as such, she bares a little more of herself than she normally would, partially in the hope that he will do the same, thus speeding up the return of his speech.

Her phone vibrates again, a few minutes later and she stands up abruptly, her chair skidding out behind her. The conversation halts immediately and the four men turn to look at her.

"Bathroom," she says, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder, before disappearing in that direction. As soon as her eyes have adjusted to the bright lights, reflecting off of the tiles, she pulls her phone out and reads her messages.

_Apparently something more interesting than talking to me._

She sighs, and scrolls down to the next message.

_Are you working?_

She bites her lip, wondering how she ought to respond to him, _or_, if she should respond at all. Maybe he needs to learn that he can't just send her a text message and she'll drop everything? Maybe he needs to learn that he can't always get what he wants. Ignoring all of her maybes, she types a reply.

_Out with the others. Can't reply when I'm with them. They're suspicious enough of my new 'texting buddy' already. _

She slides her phone back into her pocket and turns to look at herself in the mirror. Her reflection looks tired, and despite the make up, there are the faint traces of dark circles under her eyes. Sleep has not been taking precedence of late. Perhaps the constant pressure of keeping her private life private from her fellow spies is starting to wear her down.

She combs her fingers through her hair, rubs her lips together to try and rid them of the faint tint of blue from her drink and sighs. She tries to tell herself she's stalling to make it _actually_ seem like she's gone to the bathroom for a normal purpose, but when her phone vibrates again, she knows she can't kid herself.

_Sorry to interrupt your party. Don't let me inconvenience you any further._

Her heart sinks at that. She's clearly said the wrong thing but she can't understand why. All she's trying to do is protect him and he's acting like she doesn't want to talk to him. How can he not realise that she'd much rather be talking to him? Instead, she's stuck drinking something that she's sure her liver will not thank her for _and_ tastes like complete crap with a bunch of guys who wouldn't know how to respect her personal life if they were given a damn seminar on the subject.

She takes a deep breath, knowing that she can't afford to get angry. If she gets angry, then she's liable to flip at the next dumbass comment that Tony makes. Now, she decides, Loki cannot get what he wants. He cannot have her attention again tonight, because she's out, with friends, and she needs to remember that. His text messages have taken over her days so completely that she finds herself checking her phone as soon as she wakes up in the morning, and last thing before she goes to sleep at night. It's _ridiculous_, and it has to stop.

Natasha turns her phone off, puts it back in the pocket of her jacket and zips it shut. It will _not_ be coming out again tonight. That she is quite sure of.

When she rejoins the table, she downs the rest of her blue and pours herself a new glass, making sure top up Clint's and Steve's, before emptying the rest of the jug into Tony's glass.

"Whoa whoa whoa party girl, what's the rush?"

Natasha turns to Clint. "I want to move on to the vodka."

In her peripheral vision, she sees Tony's eyes light up, and a smile spreads across his face. He picks up his glass dramatically before gulping down several mouthfuls. Natasha catches the attention of the bartender and waves him over. Steve groans at the sight of the vodka bottle, but Natasha fills a shot glass for him regardless.

If she's going down, she's dragging these guys down with her.

* * *

Her head is pounding. She can feel the buckle of her belt digging in to her stomach, the duvet twisted beneath her. She opens her eyes, and is immediately blinded by the rays of sunlight streaming into the room. She left her curtains open last night, and, open further consideration, she realises that she's still wearing her jeans and her tank top. She stretches out across the bed, and her fingers come into contact with her leather jacket. She pulls it towards her, feels around for the pocket, and clumsily unzips it with one hand. She takes her phone, and with her spare hand shields her eyes from the light. After a few moments, she finally resolves to open her eyes, squinting at her phone screen.

_6.37am_

No new messages.

She sighs, the memory of last night's conversation (or _non_-conversation) flooding back to her mind. She opens up a new message and types three letters, before hitting send.

_Hey_

She rolls over and within seconds, she has fallen asleep once more.

When she awakes, the sun is no longer shining through the window. It is high in the sky, lighting every single crevice and corner of New York. Natasha sighs and sits up, her head swimming, before the dizziness clears. She glances up to the clock on the wall and sees that it's gone midday. She blames Tony. The vodka is not responsible for the way she's feeling. The mysterious blue liquid however, that has a _lot_ to answer for.

She swings her legs out of bed, grabs her phone out of habit, and heads into the bathroom. She turns on the taps and the bath starts to fill, and, once the water is scorching hot, the air steamy, she undresses and climbs in, wincing at first as the heat scalds her toes. When she is settled, she reaches down to the floor and picks up her phone. She's not had a response.

_Ignoring me?_

The reply comes almost immediately.

_Like you were ignoring me last night?_

Natasha sighs, puts her phone down, but then picks it up again three seconds later, shaking the excess water from her hands as she types a response.

_I wasn't ignoring you, I was being cautious._

She drops her phone to the floor and slides further down amongst the bubbles, hoping that her hangover will pass. After a few minutes of squinting at the spotlights on the ceiling, she hears her phone vibrate against the tiles, and throws an arm over the edge of the bath, feeling around for it. Once she finds it, she lifts it up to read Loki's message. He's sent a picture, and she opens it.

In the foreground she can see a canvas, half painted, and even in its incomplete state so obviously a Picasso pastiche. Just below the canvas she can see a paint palette with varyingly coloured blobs of oil paint glinting in the sunlight, the wood of the palette stained with different mixes and test colours. She recognises the thumb poked through the hole of the palette immediately, and finds herself smiling, then looks towards the background, where a man is sitting, his hands in his lap as he waits for Loki to paint his portrait. Beyond him, Natasha can see a line of people, and at first, she thinks it's the queue for the museum, but then she realises that it stops about twenty feet before the entrance.

The line is leading to the chair where Loki's subject sits, and there has to be at least sixty people waiting. She's not sure how quick Loki can paint, but she's pretty certain that he won't be able to get through sixty people before the end of the day. Her eye is then drawn to the message underneath the picture.

_I wasn't ignoring you. I was working. A much better excuse than drinking with idiots._

Natasha chuckles softly, and begins to type a new message.

_Business looks like it's doing well. _

The reply is delayed, presumably because he's painting, and Natasha experiences a sudden craving to see him paint. She remembers a stack of canvases in the corner of his grotty little apartment and she wishes, now more than ever, that she had _asked_ him about them. She had just assumed that they'd been left there by the previous tenant, but now she's willing to bet that they were Loki's own pieces, and that painting was the only way he'd been able to pass the time between picking pockets.

She wonders whether he stole the art materials, but then she also recalls him tilting his hand from side to side to indicate that not _all_ his leftover money would be spent on food. She closes her eyes and sighs. How long can Odin let this continue for? Loki has learned to stand on his own two feet and he has made such a drastic turnaround, veering away from destructiveness and seizing creativity with both hands.

Her phone vibrates, and she nearly drops it into the water, but her reflexes are fast enough to reaffirm her grip on it before it's even close to the bubbles.

_Very well actually. Moved into a new apartment yesterday._

Natasha won't lie. She's relieved. The place he was at previously was a hell hole. Whatever it is he's moved up to now must be a hundred times better. Or at least she hopes it is.

_Congratulations. _

She doesn't hit send, but instead she struggles over the last few words. She chews on her lower lip and then, after a little more indecision, she types five words and hits send.

_I'm really proud of you._

* * *

The following Thursday, she gets called into Fury's office. Steve, Tony and Bruce eye her as she walks past, and she feels as though she's being sent to detention. She assumes that Clint's waiting for her too in there, because she hasn't seen him all morning. She knocks on the door, hears Fury's call to enter, and goes inside. Fury is alone in the office, and Natasha frowns.

"Problem?"

"Where's Barton?"

"He's been called away," Fury says, his tone indicating that that's all he has to say on the matter. That does nothing to discourage Natasha however. She takes her phone out of her pocket to ensure she hasn't missed any messages, which is unlikely, considering that not even five minutes ago, she was typing a response to a glittering photograph of the Seine at sunset.

"Since when?" she asks.

"Sine none of your god damn business," Fury replies, his eye glaring at her.

Natasha takes a seat, tucking her phone back into her pocket. "He usually texts if he's going away."

"It was an urgent call, he's already on the plane."

Something doesn't sit right. There's a feeling in the pit of Natasha's stomach. She tries to imagine a scenario in which Clint would either not be able to find thirty seconds to tell her he's going away, or where he would just plain _forget_ to tell her, but she can't. She doesn't argue, however, because Fury has an expression on his face that suggests that if she dares question him again, she'll regret it. She laces her fingers together, her hands resting on the table, and waits patiently for Fury to stop staring her down and start talking.

"We need you to go back to Paris," he says at last.

Natasha fights to maintain an indifferent expression, and asks, "How come?"

"You'll receive instructions on Monday."

"Is it connected to the last trip?" she asks.

"It's related," Fury says flatly. "Your flight's at six fifty-five," he adds. "Go home. Pack."

Natasha is confused. "What so I spend a long weekend in Paris doing nothing before I get my brief?" A small smile twists its way across her lips at the prospect of it. Perhaps on this trip she'll be able to see more than the Eiffel Tower.

"You make like a tourist. Go to a few landmarks, drink champagne, go shopping, enjoy the architecture -"

"The architecture?" Natasha snors.

Fury stares at her. "It's a damn fine city with some damn fine architecture,. You would do well to _appreciate_ it."

"Yes sir..." Natasha mumbles, trying not to smirk. Of all the people at SHIELD to start talking about architecture, she had never thought it would be Fury. Steve, yes, Bruce, yes, even Tony, though it would only be about the architecture of Stark tower, but Fury? The idea makes her smile, though she keeps it at bay. She doesn't want him handing the mission over to someone else. Especially not if that someone else decides to visit the Musée d'Orsay.

"We're done," Fury says. "Get out."

"Yes sir." Natasha stands and leaves the office, closing the door behind her. She heads back into the main room, where Tony and Bruce are showing a baffled Steve something on a computer screen.

"What have you done to piss Fury off this time?" Tony asks, his eyes still fixed on the screen.

"Nothing. I'm flying out for a new mission though, so you'll have to try and get by without me for a week or so."

"Where're you headed?" Tony asks, determinedly not looking at her.

"I'm afraid that's classified information," Natasha replies, smirking softly. Both Bruce and Steve smirk in response, but Tony clicks the mouse a few times, his attention still on the screen though Steve is no longer paying any attention to what's going on.

"Have fun," Tony says. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Natasha rolls her eyes, raises a hand in goodbye, which Steve and Bruce both return, and leaves the room.

It's not until her apartment door is closed behind her that she allows herself to break into a full smile.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Well, here we are again. Thanks for the get well wishes - I'm sure you'll all be thrilled to know that I can sort of keep my eyes open after visiting two different opticians and the hospital. Turns out it's an allergy thing that makes my eyelids far too heavy for my eyes to be able to keep them open, and it gets worse as I get tired so that's my excuse for not having proofread this. Although I am considerably better now that I have hardcore drugs. But still, too sick to proofread. XD Anyway, I hope you'll like this chapter. It was a real tough one to write, especially towards the end. Hope it's been worth it though. =]

* * *

**Golden**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

Natasha is lying face down on the Egyptian cotton sheets of her hotel bed by ten o'clock the next morning. At some point she falls asleep, but wakes again around midday, After a shower and a change of clothes, she is strolling through the city, sipping on a creamy latte, another held in her spare hand. When she reaches the square in front of the d'Orsay, she can't see Loki anywhere but assumes he is somewhere behind the huge crowd of people milling around in the centre.

She navigates her way through the masses, careful not to spill Loki's coffee and ignoring the tuts and huffs that seem to travel with her. Finally she makes it out the other side and sees him, his eyes flicking between his canvas and two girls perched on a couple of tatty folding chairs. Natasha makes her way to the front but is pulled back, hot coffee spilling out of the hole in the lid of Loki's cup and scalding her fingers.

"Hey lady, there's a line."

Natasha takes a deep breath, her burned fingers tapping against the corrugated side of the coffee cup. She looks up to see a large man with a short, rough beard, his beady eyes cast into shade by the brim of his baseball cap. "Take your hands off of me."

"Get to the back of the line then," he says, though at the expression on Natasha's face, his confident stare falters.

"I'm not here to get my damn portrait painted," Natasha says with all the patience she can muster. She glances over to Loki, who has a paintbrush clamped between his teeth while he mixes a new colour on his paint palette. Either he hasn't noticed the squabble or he is so used to fights breaking out around him that he pays them no attention.

"Yeah we've heard that one at least three times today." the man says, looking towards his sunburned wife who nods, while loudly chewing a piece of gum.

Natasha closes her eyes. If she's here on a mission then she can't cause a scene in one of the busiest spots in the city. She can't be the petite redhead who flattens the six foot American. Not today.

Suddenly, the hand is wrenched off of her arm, and she is aware of someone tall standing close behind her. She turns on the spot to be met with the sight of a torso, clad in a faded black v-neck t-shirt, a recognisable pale triangle of chest at her eye level. She looks up and sees Loki, towering above her, and the expression on his face fills Natasha with dread. That fixed, resolute jaw says he's on the brink of undoing massive amounts of progress. The steely coldness in his eyes says that she needs to brace herself, and be prepared to throw herself into the middle of a much unneeded disturbance. The almost imperceptible tremble of his lower lip says that all hell is about to break loose.

"Hey, I'm sorry, I thought she was cutting in. We've waited for three hours and..." The tourist trails off when he realises that his words are having no effect whatsoever on Loki, who raises his arm, pointing into the distance, his message clear.

"But we - we waited, I - "

Loki stares at him, hard, until eventually he stops stuttering and turns away, his slack jawed wife following wordlessly behind him.

Once they're twenty yards away, Natasha places her hand on Loki's chest. He blinks and looks down at her, as though only just realising that she's there. He breaks into a smile and Natasha's breath catches in her throat. It's now that she realises that she's never seen him smile, not properly. She's seen a maniacal grin, that's left tainted, icy blue eyes shining bright with malice, but never has she seen him beam, his own green eyes twinkling with happiness.

She hands him his coffee, and shakes the excess liquid off of her hand with a flick of her wrist. Loki raises his cup in thanks and takes a sip, his eyes closing as he swallows what is probably by now a lukewarm drink. Once he's drained a good amount of his coffee, he leads Natasha back over to his canvas, gestures for her to sit on his stool, then picks up his palette and continues painting.

Natasha watches while he works, his brush moving quickly across the canvas. Now, she realises that he's not _entirely_ human. He can achieve in less than an hour what the great artists from history took months to perfect.

It's infuriating.

Soon, he's finished, and he dumps his brushes in a pot of water, then gestures for the two girls to come and see his work. They giggle behind their hands when they see themselves, Da Vinci'd, as it were. The background is a near perfect rendition of the background of the Mona Lisa, and the subjects have had their brightly coloured hoodies painted as embroidered dresses, their hair resting softly against their shoulders, their lips curved in knowing smiles.

Still giggling, they fumble in their purses for some money, and hand it to Loki. He then passes them the canvas, gesturing for them to not touch the front of it, and they leave, while those that are standing in line crane their necks to see the painting. Loki roots through a large, battered leather bag then pulls out a small wooden sign which he props up on his easel. Natasha recognises the handwriting immediately.

_Out to lunch._

_Fermé pour le déjeuner._

As Loki leads her away from his stand, Natasha hears the groans of the crowd, and can feel the death glares hot against her skin. She does the only thing she can think to do, and the only thing she really _wants_ to do.

She smiles.

* * *

"Is all your stuff gonna be okay?" Natasha asks.

Loki nods, chewing his pasta, then swallowing. He looks up, opens his mouth a little, then sighs. He puts down his fork and then leans down, rooting through his bag, before pulling out a small sketchbook and a pencil. He flips past pages of grey doodles before coming to a clean page, and begins to write.

_The crowd won't let anyone steal my things - that might stop them from getting their paintings._

Natasha nods, and draws up the last of her milkshake through her straw. "Do you get through everybody who waits?"

Loki shakes his head.

"Do they get _mad_?"

Loki shrugs, and Natasha knows he couldn't care less. He's making his money, he's comfortable, he's clean, he looks _healthy_, and Natasha can't help but smile as she watches him eat. He's so different from when she bought him dinner the last time they met. He eats much more slowly now, as though he is no stranger to a good meal, and he's much more at ease with his surroundings. Loki has made Paris his home.

When he's finished eating, and Natasha has decided that she can't eat another bite, Loki turns back to his sketchbook, pencil in hand, and jots down a few words.

_I take it you're not just here for a visit._

Natasha smiles. "I have the weekend spare."

_I don't work Sundays._

Natasha meets his gaze, and something twinges in her stomach, something that has nothing to do with digestion. The waitress places the bill on the table and Natasha blinks, then reaches for her bag. Loki waves a hand, extracting a wallet from his pocket.

"Is that yours?" Natasha asks playfully.

Loki's look is cutting, just for moment, and then he smiles, opening the wallet, pulling out a couple of notes and placing them down on the metal dish where the bill rests. He stands, nods towards the door, and Natasha rises, following him towards the exit as he weaves his way through the gaps between the small round tables.

When they arrive back at the square, the line is as long as ever. Loki gestures for Natasha to sit on his stool once more, then waves over the next person in line - a timid looking, round faced boy who's clearly been waiting for hours. Loki passes him a collection of post cards, and he settles on a Dali. Loki grins, picks up his brushes, and begins to paint.

Natasha watches as the line grows shorter, and the sun begins to sink lower in the sky. By five o'clock, Natasha decides to take a look around the d'Orsay. There's only so long she can sit and watch Loki paint for before she becomes entirely envious of his skills. However, it's not until she's looking at the originals that she can see just how truly talented he really is. When she reaches the room dedicated to van Gogh, she makes a bee-line for the self-portrait that her painting was quite plainly based upon. In it, she recognises certain brush strokes, and particular streaks of colour that Loki has somehow managed to replicate from memory, for he does not look at the post cards whilst painting, those are merely to help his punters make their minds up. She takes a step back, and tries to imagine if her own canvas would look right in here, in an ornate gold frame, surrounded by tourists, a little plaque beneath it, explaining its origin. She smiles at the idea, and continues on to the next room.

After a quick wander through the gift shop, having purchased a few post cards for Loki to replicate for her when he has the time, she steps outside to see that there only a few people left in Loki's line. A couple join the end, but Loki looks up and shakes his head at them, and they walk away disappointed. Natasha descends the stone steps, making her way over to him. She watches him paint for a little while, and notices that he's moving his brush more quickly now, and mixing his colours speedily, as though it's a sprint to the finish line. She puts a hand on his shoulder and he starts, looking up at her. There are faint dark circles under his eyes and Natasha bites her lip.

"You want some coffee?"

He nods, and Natasha squeezes his shoulder, before scanning the surrounding area, looking for somewhere that will sell her a latte. A hundred yards or so away, she spots a neon sign and heads towards it. When she reaches the café, she breaks out a little French to place her order, and five minutes later she's back with Loki. He takes the cup from her, mouths a 'thank you', and places it on the floor by his stool while he puts the finishing touches on his current subject's canvas.

It's not until the sun has completely disappeared, and the street lights have flickered into existence, that Loki finishes his last painting. The girl sitting in front of him looks almost as tired as he does, and Natasha would wager that she's probably waited in line for six hours to have her portrait painted. She still can't believe that people would do that, despite the fact that the paintings are beautiful. She would never have the patience to stand in line for that long; she's even struggling to be patient just _watching_ Loki paint. There's no doubt about it though, he works himself ragged six days a week in order to pay his rent and buy his food, which is beyond anything she (and, she imagines, Odin) could ever have reasonably expected.

She looks up when she hears the sound of a paintbrush being dropped into water, and at long last, Loki is finished. The girl hands over her money, thanks him, and takes her canvas, walking slowly towards the metro station, the slap of her flip flops on the paving slabs echoing around the empty square.

Loki drains the last of his coffee and then stands, tossing the empty cup into a nearby bin, and begins to pack away his things. He folds the metal chairs and is stool flat and leans them against a lamp post. His easel then joins the chairs, and he takes a bicycle lock from his leather bag and secures them to the lamp post, his thumb twisting the combination dials around to a random number. Once he's thrown everything in his bag, he looks at Natasha, and she finds she doesn't need him to write in his sketchbook in order for her to understand what he wants to say.

The idea of dinner flies out of the window after they've been on the metro for five minutes - Loki is sound asleep, his face resting against his bag, and Natasha smiles. When they're a couple of stops away from her hotel, she wakes him, and he blinks blearily in the harsh lighting of the carriage.

"Go home. Get some rest, okay?"

He nods, and Natasha stands, secures her bag strap over her shoulder, then looks back at Loki, whose eyes are already closed again. There is a lock of dark hair, dangling in his face, the tips of his hair tickling his eyelid. She reaches forward and gently brushes it away with her fingers. His eyes flick open at the contact.

"Don't fall asleep again," she says, as the train slows.

He waves a dismissive hand at her and the doors slide open. Natasha steps onto the platform and takes one last look at him as the doors close. He must have disobeyed her the moment she turned her back; because he is already curled up against his bag, his chest rising and falling softly. He doesn't move a muscle as the train pulls away, and Natasha tries no to smile as she climbs the steps towards the street.

* * *

The evening air is cool against her skin. She leans back on her right hand, her legs dangling over the concrete edge of the river bank. The bridges along the Seine are lit with warm yellow lights, like fireflies in the distance. Natasha hears the glug of the wine bottle and turns to see Loki refilling her glass, then emptying the last of the wine into his own glass. She smiles and picks up her glass, taking a sip. Her head is fuzzy already, but she doesn't mind. The wine causes a warmth to emanate from within her, chasing away the chill of the breeze.

She doesn't want this to stop.

"I start work tomorrow."

From the corner of her eye, she sees him nod.

"And you'll be painting?"

He nods again.

"You might not hear from me for a while, depending on what I'm doing."

They sit in silence, and Natasha is suddenly filled with an unfamiliar feeling of sadness. She can't ever remember smiling as much in her whole life as she has this weekend, let alone smiling and meaning it. Her life consists of work, and being alone. It's never bothered her before, but now... she doesn't want to spend days, maybe weeks out of contact, she doesn't want to go back to that empty apartment, she doesn't want to spend her days thoroughly aware of the fact that he's thousands of miles away.

She blinks, pushing down her feelings to a place where they can be easily ignored. She can feel eyes on her, and she turns, to see Loki watching her, his gaze intense.

"So...what's your new place like?" Natasha asks, turning to look across the river. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower is lit up like a Christmas tree, and when she's stared at it so long that the lights start to blur, she turns back to Loki. He's writing in his sketchbook. After a few moments, he hands it to her.

_Not very impressive. Can't get anywhere good without a real job. I have the money but not the paperwork. It's better than the last place though. It has a kitchen._

"Well that's always a bonus," Natasha says, handing him the sketchbook. "Sounds much better than your last place."

She hears the scribbling of pencil on paper, and the sketchbook is passed to her again.

_Want to see?_

"Okay."

Loki rises gracefully, and holds out a hand to help Natasha to her feet. She slides her feet back into her shoes, picks up her bag, and lets him lead her away from the riverbank, leaving their wine glasses and bottle behind.

He seems to know the city like the back of his hand, for he leads her through a number of short cuts, down tiny side streets which the average passer by would miss with a blink and eventually they arrive at a large building. Loki leads her up the stone steps and pushes open the first door, before taking his keys out of his pocket and unlocking the door behind that. They climb a wide, thickly carpeted staircase until they reach the second floor, and Loki heads towards the door on the left, unlocking it and pushing it open. He switches on the light, which flickers before fully coming to life, its dim orange glow growing brighter by the second.

The apartment is larger than his last one. There's a worn sofa and a long wooden coffee table, and even a bookshelf, which is nearly half full with books on various subjects, including ones on each of the artists that Loki channels for his customers. Off to the left, Natasha can see a small kitchen through the gap between the door and door frame. The cabinets have been painted powder blue, and the linoleum floor looks as though it's seen better days. The place is clean though, and it's in a nicer area than his last apartment, so it's a huge improvement. If he spent a little money on it, she imagines it could become quite liveable. But, he's being very sensible with his cash, holding onto it in case he needs it in the winter months. She's made it clear she'll help him out if needs be, but he's always ignored her offer of help, too proud to accept anything from her if he doesn't have to.

"It's nice," Natasha says to him, turning to face him. He frowns slightly, and but doesn't reach for his sketchbook. She walks over to the window to look out onto the street below, dark and deserted, then, out of the corner of her eye, she spots a collection of canvases, leaning against the wall.

"Are these yours?" she asks, pointing to them.

He hesitates, then nods, running a hand through his hair.

"Can I look at them?"

He nods slowly, and she walks over to the canvases, turning them around so she can see them. Her breath hitches in her throat at the first, which she recognises immediately as Monet's Water Lily Pond. She looks up at Loki, who is standing close by, chewing the inside of his lower lip.

"That's amazing," she says. "Stunning."

He shrugs, and Natasha shakes her head exasperatedly, then moves on to the next one. It's Vermeer's Girl with a Pearl Earring, and Natasha can hardly believe what she's seeing. Everything about it is perfect, and she can't believe it's been stashed in a corner. The next one is a replica of van Gogh's Starry Night, and then after that, it's the Scream, and then, eventually, right at the back, she reaches something she doesn't recognise.

Loki grabs her hand, pulling it away before she can reveal the canvas fully, and Natasha freezes, her breath held in her lungs.

"Please?" she asks in a whisper.

Loki considers her for a moment, then releases her hand, turning away. She pulls the last canvas out from behind the others, so she can see it fully. Loki still has his back to the painting, unwilling to see it. Natasha can't understand why. It's beautiful. Pale pearlescent buildings stretch up high into an inky black sky, littered with stars. There are large, grand arches, expansive domes and tall, slender towers. In the foreground, there is an icy footpath, streaked with all colours of the spectrum, and Natasha knows what this is. She knows why Loki will not look at it. She knows why it has been banished to a dark corner. She knows why he will not acknowledge that landscape of warmth in a chilly, black wilderness.

"Is this Asgard?"

He makes no response, and Natasha knows she is correct. She puts the canvas back behind the others and after a minute of complete silence, he turns to face her, his brow creased with what Natasha can only assume to be homesickness. He takes a step forward, and another, until he is inches away from Natasha, and he raises his hand to her chin, tilting her face up gently with his index finger.

Her brain stops processing, and all of her thoughts vanish. She has to concentrate solely on remembering to breathe, and then, as he draws in closer, her eyelids flutter shut.

His lips brush against hers gently, hesitantly, his breath hot against her skin, and, when she doesn't protest, he presses his lips to hers again, more confidently this time. She grips the fabric of his t shirt, pulling him closer, as his lips move against hers, and his tongue glides across the part of her lips, begging entry. She complies, and as he deepens the kiss, she pulls him even closer, until she is backed against the wall, his lean, sinewy body pressed against hers, his chest heaving with every stolen breath. His left hand travels up her waist, across her back and then tangles itself in her hair, and when his lips move to her neck, Natasha lets out a soft moan, the knot in her stomach tightening with every soft kiss, each light nip of his teeth against her skin.

She captures his lips with her own, and smiles against him as she tastes a mixture of rich merlot and sweet caramel, then, without warning, he breaks the kiss, his teeth grazing her lower lip as he pulls away. He rests his forehead against her own, his breath coming in sharp, heavy gasps, and then reaches past her to the door on her left. He twists the handle and pushes it open, then looks down at Natasha. He swallows, awaiting her answer, but for once, she is as speechless as he is, and so she simply nods, her skin tingling, craving the warmth of him.

Loki places his hands on her hips, and guides her into the bedroom, and when the door is closed, and the room has descended into pitch black, she lets him take the lead, her heart hammering in her chest.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **And here we have chapter 6. Huzzah! Sorry for the delay but it turns out that my eyes aren't fixed. And I'm actually a lot more not well than first anticipated. But stuff happens and I'll be fine. But it does mean that coupled with the hot weather, a few upcoming trips away, and general not-well-ness and the associated shiz that goes with that, I can't promise when the next chapter will be. But hopefully you'll enjoy this one enough for it to tide you over until then. Thank you all for your gorgeous reviews. You make me oh so happy. =]

* * *

**Golden**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

The coils of the mattress are digging into her when she wakes. Sunlight has already broken through the thin linen curtains, and Natasha pushes herself up onto her elbows to squint at the old fashioned alarm clock sitting on the floorboards next to Loki's side of the mattress. It's just gone six thirty, and Natasha gazes down at Loki, sound asleep, his hair falling into his face and quivering as it's disturbed by his breathing. She gently brushes the strands away and sighs, resting her chin on the heel of her palm.

She doesn't know what her instructions will hold for her today. She could be out of contact for five hours, or five months. She has no idea.

She gasps when a hand closes gently around her wrist, and when she looks down, she discovers that Loki is peeping up at her through one eye. She lays her head down on the pillow and watches him, wanting to commit the image of him to memory.

He reaches across one large pale hand and tucks her hair behind her ear, before his thumb brushes softly against her jaw. She closes her eyes, and soon feels his lips against her own, his right hand skating over her skin and making its way down her upper arm, coming to rest on her bare hip.

Natasha indulges, just for a minute, but when he pulls her thigh up to rest on his hip, his fingers lightly caressing her skin, she breaks away from him.

"I have to work today," she says.

He sighs and rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling, his hands clasped together and resting on top of his stomach.

"You have to work as well," she tells him. "But if I'm not at the hotel to get my brief, all hell's gonna break loose."

He continues to stare at the ceiling, and so Natasha sits up and starts pulling on her clothes. She slides her legs into her jeans and raises her hips so she can fasten them at her waist. Then, she leans over and kisses Loki softly on his forehead, before pulling back and looking down at him, her eyes searching his. She wants to be sure that he understands that her work life and her life with him are two very separate things - they have to be, because there's a huge conflict of interest, given past events. But his face is still stern and unforgiving.

"You know I'd rather stay. I'm not going because I want to."

He blinks, and looks down, avoiding her gaze. He unclasps his hands and places one against her thigh. Even through the fabric of her jeans, his touch sets her pulse racing. He props himself up on his elbow, then with his other hand, pulls her in for a kiss.

Natasha knows that she has to go, knows that she has to stop this before it gets out of hand, but instead of doing either of those things, she kisses him back, resting her hands against his bare chest and tracing circles on his skin with her fingertips.

She has to break away to breathe, and when she does, she moves away from him, so he can't reel her back in. For a mad moment, she briefly wonders what would happen if she called Fury and told him that she's quitting, but then she stands, ridding that thought from her brain and moving closer to the door.

"I'll text you as soon as I'm done," she says. "I promise." She edges closer to the door, reaching out behind her to find the handle. Loki falls back onto his pillows, and resumes his staring at the ceiling. She wonders if it's because he doesn't want to see her leave, and then tells herself that that's a ridiculous, childish thought.

She backs out of the room and closes the door quietly. She rests her head in her hands, taking a moment to collect herself, and then she sighs. She must switch off her heart now. She must become the assassin that she trained to be - nothing more, nothing less. If she thinks about Loki, if she worries about him, if she lets her mind wander while she's working, then the consequences could be disastrous. She takes a deep breath, swallowing down every single bit of her that wants to walk straight back into that room and spend all day with him, even if it involves that hellishly uncomfortable mattress.

She turns, and her heart stops in her chest, her lungs coming to an abrupt halt.

Sitting at the dining table, his feet propped up on one of the other chairs, his eyes blazing with fury, is Clint.

"You need to come with me," he says, his voice hard.

"Clint, listen -"

"You've been corrupted, and it's not your fault, but please, Natasha, just come with me and we'll get it fixed."

She's been corrupted all right, but not in the way that Clint believes.

"You don't under-"

"_I _don't understand?" Clint says in disbelief. He gets to his feet and starts walking towards her. "I am the _only_ one at SHIELD who knows what it's like to be going through this, so don't tell me that I -"

"He hasn't used mind control or whatever kind of messed up tricks he used on you!" Natasha snaps. "He's been stripped of his powers, he's basically _human_."

"Bullshit."

The door creaks open, but Natasha doesn't dare turn. She wants to keep her attention on Clint, she needs to be ready to defend Loki, should it come to that, and she has the awful feeling that it might. She feels a hand squeeze her shoulder, and can feel him close behind her, his presence taking the edge off of the tension in her body.

"Show him your tongue."

After a second's delay, Clint's upper lip curls in disgust.

"What happened to him?"

"Odin."

Clint blinks and shakes his head. "This is the guy that was going to get me to _kill you_."

Natasha has nothing to say to that. She will never try to explain away Loki's past actions, just as she will never try to explain away her own, but since the day he spared her life, Clint has never judged her for her past, has never raised an eyebrow, has never even questioned it, and for that, she is grateful. She fears things are far too personal between him and Loki for Clint to be able to extend the same generosity again, but she can hope.

"He's got red in his ledger," Natasha says quietly. "And so have I."

"It's _completely_ different," Clint says. "How can you even begin to - I just - _look_, I've been given orders to bring you in. So just, just come."

"And what about him?" Natasha jerks her head backwards, and Clint's eyes flick up to glare at Loki. He then smirks, and a jolt of anxiety strikes through Natasha.

"He's being taken care of, don't worry."

Natasha moves back, her hand finding Loki's and gripping it tightly. She shakes her head, backing towards the window.

"No," she says. "Clint, _no_."

"Not my call, but that doesn't mean that I can't feel that it's entirely deserved..."

"Clint _please_," Natasha begs. "He's _changed_."

"Will you listen to yourself?" Clint snaps. "You're being _ridiculous_. This is the guy that took over my mind, this is the guy that killed eighty people in two days, this is the guy who tried to take over the planet, this is the guy who…this is the guy who killed _Phil_."

Natasha falls quiet. She understands Clint's anger, understands why, underneath all the fierceness of his gaze, lies a disappointment in her that feels like a knife in the gut to him. She knows that of all the people in the universe, any of them would have been more preferable in his eyes, any of them. He could have forgiven for all manner of sins, but killing Phil? Taking over his mind? Clint cannot forgive that. And that's fine, Natasha gets that. But the day she will step aside and let Loki be 'taken care of' is the same day that day pigs start soaring through the sky.

"What are you even saying?"

"I didn't say anything," Natasha says, but when she realises that Clint's looking at a spot about a foot above her head, she turns. Loki is mouthing words at Clint, his eyes shining bright as he carries on, seemingly trying to talk hard enough to make a sound.

"Yeah," Clint says. "Whatever. Nat, c'mon."

"I'm _not_ leaving him."

"You don't have much choice," Clint replies, looking down at his watch. "Just come with me. _Please_."

Natasha shakes her head and moves backwards, closer to Loki. She squeezes his hand, tightly, so tightly that she might break it, but she doesn't care. She's not letting go. Clint runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

"How can you just decide everything he did suddenly doesn't matter?"

"You tell me," Natasha replies. "If I was capable of change then he certainly is."

Clint opens his mouth to speak but at that moment, the apartment door is kicked open, and a dozen helmeted SHIELD agents burst in, clad in bulletproof vests, their heavy steel-capped boots thundering against the floorboards. Natasha stares at Clint in disbelief, her mouth ajar.

Within seconds, they're surrounded, and Natasha tightens her grip on Loki's hand. She tries to ignore the guns trained on them, but when Clint takes an arrow from the quiver on his back and takes aim, Natasha lunges forward. She's hauled back immediately by Loki, his arms tight around her, amidst the metallic clicks of bullets being loaded into chambers.

"Take me. Leave her, she's done nothing."

Loki removes his hands from around Natasha's waist and steps in front of her, his hands raised in surrender.

"Did you just -?" Natasha can barely believe her ears, but is sure she hasn't imagined that silky tone.

"It seems so, doesn't it?" Loki says, glancing over his shoulder at her before turning back to face the agents. "What are you waiting for? This _is _a surrender."

"Loki -"

"This is my decision," he says, not looking at Natasha. "I haven't been able to decide much of late, but this is mine for the taking. Or giving, as it were."

Before Natasha can say another word, Clint has given the nod and lowered his bow, while one of the agents dashes forward, wrestling Loki's arms behind his back and snapping some cuffs around his wrists. Loki winces as the metal pinches his skin and Natasha steps towards them. Instantly, she has eleven barrels pointing at her, and she raises her hands.

"You leave a single mark on him and I will _destroy_ you," Natasha warns them.

"Lower your God damn weapons," Clint says exasperatedly. "Nat, will you come now?"

"On the condition that he doesn't leave my sight. Same car, same flight, same everything. Deal?"

Clint regards her for a long moment, and Natasha keeps her gaze stony. She will not compromise. Not when she knows how much some of these men hate Loki. She will not give them even the smallest window of opportunity.

"Fine," Clint sighs. "But if anything happens, it's on you." He throws a distrusting glare towards Loki, and Natasha breathes a small sigh of relief. Loki is pushed towards the apartment door, and Clint hangs back for Natasha. She grabs Loki's keys from the coffee table, slings his leather jacket over her shoulder, and joins Clint at the door.

"How pissed is Fury?"

"Very."

Natasha grimaces, and as the apartment door swings shut behind them, she starts to ponder every possible way that she might be able to talk their way out of whatever punishment Fury has prepared for her and Loki.

* * *

"This is somewhat familiar."

Natasha can't help but smile as Loki is marched on board the jet, his arms secured behind him. The agents flanking him don't find his comment amusing however, and when they reach his seat, it is with unnecessary force that they twist him around, shove him into his seat and then cuff his left arm to the chair. Natasha pushes herself up from her own seat and goes to join him, ignoring the accusatory looks she receives from the guards.

"You must feel like an idiot," Loki says quietly.

"I wouldn't say that to the only person who'll bother to stick around to uncuff you if we crash."

Loki smirks. "Planning a daring escape?"

"_No_," she says firmly. "This is important. You _have_ to play by their rules. If you want your freedom, you _have_ to cooperate."

"Play by their rules? Coming from the woman who's been sleeping with the enemy?"

"I think I liked you better when you couldn't talk…"

Loki chuckles softly, but something doesn't sit right with Natasha. She wants to brush it off, knows that offhand comments are nothing more than just that, but right now, with a dozen itchy trigger fingers around them, she needs to ask the question that she's assumed she's known the answer to for weeks.

"_Are you_ the enemy?"

Loki tilts his head back onto the headrest and stares at the air vents. He sighs heavily and Natasha waits for his answer, skewing her lips to one side.

"I will never be your enemy."

"But if you're SHIELD's enemy, you're _my_ enemy. If you're going to -"

"I _am_ SHIELD's enemy. Clearly." His cuffs clink as he raises his arm and gestures to them. "But I have no desire to do battle with them. With _anyone_."

Natasha raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

"_Really_."

"You ready?" Clint asks, throwing himself into a seat and securing his lap belt.

"Yeah," Natasha says, fastening the clasp of her own. When she feels Loki fidgeting next to her, she looks down to see him struggling with his own belt, one handed. She reaches across and fastens it swiftly, yanking the end to tighten it. He grunts, and from the corner of her eye, Natasha sees Clint smirk. Loki exhales loudly and Natasha sits back in her seat. It's not long before the jet starts to gather speed, and she feels the familiar lurch in her stomach as they lift off of the runway.

* * *

She stares out of the window at the endless blue, not a cloud in sight. Nobody is talking, and the silence weighs down on her, as she speeds towards her fate at five hundred miles per hour. She knows they'll be touching down in a few hours, knows that once they get to HQ, both she and Loki will be hauled into separate interrogation rooms and she won't be able to bargain with Fury like she can with Clint. She can already feel that beady stare, x-raying her and digging up all of her secrets from the dark recesses of her mind. Fury knows the worst of it already, he's read her file, and in her opinion, the past weeks have got nothing on some of the things she's done previously.

Nobody's died.

At least they haven't died _yet_. She feels that she might be top of the list right now. Or maybe _just_ pipped to the post by Loki. Either way, it's not the best position for them to be in.

Loki's hand closes over her own, and it's only now that Natasha realises that she's been rapidly tapping her finger nervously on the armrest. She stills, and Loki brushes his thumb across her knuckles. She glances over at him, but he's looking straight ahead at the safety card on the wall in front of them. She feels sick, her stomach twisting uncomfortably. She knows she's been an idiot, careless, caught up in the moment, but she also knows that nothing bad has _actually_ happened because of what she's done. All she needs is to be able to speak long enough to explain this to Fury, to prove to him that the man sitting beside her right now is not the same deranged maniac they fought in New York. And even if he _is_ lying and _is_ planning on killing them all, he's completely powerless and hasn't even been able to _speak_, and they all know that his way with words has gotten him further than brute strength would have.

Natasha stops breathing, the realisation hitting her. If Loki now has his voice, and can now talk and be sarcastic and do all of the things that he enjoys so much then –

"Are your powers back?" The whisper is almost lost amongst the rumble of the engines, but the twitch of Loki's lower lip assures Natasha that he's heard her.

He takes his hand off of hers, balls it into a fist, and when he opens it, there is a small, dark green leaf in his palm. He closes his hand again, and a small amount of sand trickles out from the gaps between his fingers. When he opens his hand, the leaf is gone.

"Shit," Natasha breathes.

The corner of Loki's mouth twitches upwards in the smallest of smirks.

"Did you know? In the apartment, after you could talk, did you know?"

Loki turns to her, his face inches from hers. In her peripheral vision, she can see Clint watching them closely, his eyes narrowed. Loki raises his hand and twirls a lock of Natasha's hair around his fingers, before leaning forward and pressing his lips gently to her own. When he pulls away, he gives her the smallest of nods, and Natasha holds her expression steady, forcing herself to not react. Loki sits back in his seat and closes his eyes, his hand finding Natasha's and taking hold of it.

Natasha chews the inside of her lower lip, and when she looks up, she sees Clint, still watching. He shakes his head and snatches the inflight magazine out of the seat pocket, pulling it open to a random article. He holds the magazine in front of his face, blocking Natasha from view, and she sighs.

Loki lets go of her hand and raises his arm, and at first Natasha wonders what on earth he's doing. But when he opens his eyes and frowns at her, waving his hand at her to come closer, everything falls into place and she leans against him, his arm coming to rest around her shoulders. She knows he means to comfort her, but all he really does is give her something else to add to the list of things she might lose after her confrontation with Fury.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **That awkward moment when you prepare people for a long wait between chapters and then spend the following day writing the next one. Yeah... Thanks for your reviews for the last chapter, you're all very very gorgeous and lovely.

* * *

**Golden**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

The wait is the longest she has ever experienced. Loki stands close behind her, his hands cuffed together once more. She can feel his breath disturbing her hair, and, were it anyone else, this would annoy her. She likes the constant reminder that he's there though, is reassured by the prickle of her skin that informs her they're barely an inch apart. She can smell the leather of his jacket, and is suddenly seized by the child like desire to bury her face in it and hide from the world.

She should have quit this a long time ago. Should have taken Loki to some distant island where he could have painted all day and she could have finally learned what it is to relax.

The door bursts open and Fury strides in, his expression murderous.

"Barton, take the prisoner to interrogation room C."

Clint doesn't say a word, but moves forward, placing one hand on Loki's shoulder and the other on his upper arm, then guides him towards the exit.

"Agent Barton – the _other_ prisoner."

She shouldn't be surprised, but she had hoped, foolishly, that it might have been considered by SHIELD that she _hasn't_ betrayed them and that she _isn't_ planning world domination with Loki. She raises her hands and Clint cuffs her, making a concerted effort _not_ to make eye contact with her.

"Director," Loki begins, and Natasha closes her eyes. Nothing he can say will make this situation any better for either of them. "Do not punish Natasha for my past offences. She is not your enemy."

"I don't remember asking for your opinion on the matter." Fury is uncommonly calm, but as Clint leads Natasha from the room, she glances over her shoulder to see Fury round on Loki, staring him down. Loki stares back, though with none of the venom that Fury has, and Natasha's stomach twists uncomfortably.

Too soon, she is in the corridor, agents with semi-automatic weapons standing guard every ten feet. Clint is silent, his head hanging low as he walks alongside her, the hand on her shoulder barely gripping. If she wanted to escape, she could. They both know that. They both know that the cuffs make no difference – if anything they'd allow her to be a little more creative.

"Do you trust me?" Natasha asks quietly.

"Of course."

"Then -"

"I don't trust _him_ with you. I know what he did to me and -"

"I know," she says softly. "And I know that you hate him for it."

"Do you honestly think he's changed? _Really_?"

Natasha nods. "He hit rock bottom. His own father sent him there. He had to learn to survive on another planet with no powers, no _voice _-"

"But he's got his voice back," Clint says. "He can talk."

"But you saw him trying before, didn't you? That's what it's been like, ever since he's been here. He hasn't been able to communicate."

"Except via text," Clint mumbles.

"He would have gone _insane_ if he'd been left on his own."

"He already _was_ insane."

"And what would you say he is now?"

Clint doesn't answer, and when they reach the door of the interrogation room, he pushes it open, and Natasha walks inside, taking a seat on the 'wrong' side of the table. It's been a long time since she was in this position, and from experience, she knows it's not something to look forward to.

"Drink?" Clint asks.

"Got any vodka?"

Clint smirks, but it doesn't last for long. "Nat…"

"I'll be fine."

"Just be honest with Fury. This has all blown up because you weren't honest with him."

"And if I _had_ been honest? Where would Loki be now?"

"Who gives a damn?"

"_I do_."

Clint shakes his head and leaves. When the door is closed, she hears the clunk of the locks sliding into place, and she is left alone in the silence.

* * *

"When did it start?"

Fury fixes her with a cold stare, his respect for her vanished. Natasha shifts in her seat and casts her mind back to the very beginning.

"When I was on watch at the Eiffel Tower. I saw him pickpocket a tourist…I pursued."

"And then?"

"He was starving, he couldn't speak, he'd been cast into exile and…I'd never seen anyone look that desperate. So…I bought him dinner."

Fury lets out a hiss of disbelief and shakes his head. Natasha glances down at the dictaphone, the green LED shining brightly.

"I wanted to give him a chance," Natasha continues. "I needed a chance once…"

She lets the whole story spill out in a steady stream of words, her tone never changing, Fury's gaze never faltering. She tries not to fiddle with her hands too much, but finds herself tapping the table softly as she struggles to keep the tremor from her voice. She talks and talks until her throat is dry, and eventually, Fury leaves to fetch her some water. Natasha takes a steadying breath while she awaits his return, her mind wandering to Loki's own interrogation. She wonders if he's just sitting alone, if Fury's determined to get a full story from each of them, or whether he's given the task of interviewing Loki to Clint, or Agent Hill, or someone else who might beat the living shit out of him given half the chance.

Natasha closes her eyes and forces those thoughts out of her mind. Loki has his powers back now, he can defend himself, but at the same time, that can only make the situation worse. She sighs and slumps down in her seat, their situation becoming more impossible by the second.

Fury returns with the water and sets it down on the table. Natasha mumbles a 'thanks' and drains the contents of the plastic cup quickly. Fury then gestures for Natasha to continue with her story and she begins to talk again, dredging up every single detail, every single text message exchange, every single picture, every single second.

"And last night?"

Natasha swallows, the memories hazy. It feels as though she's recalling hours from someone else's life, or from a movie, because the whirlwind of last night, the escalation from the relaxing stroll around the city to dinner, with the tarte tatin and the merlot by the river, to the paintings in Loki's apartment, and _that kiss_ and all that followed, they don't feel like memories that belong to Natasha. She's never experienced anything like that and she doubts she will again. It's not in her nature to be swept up in the moment.

She feels the heat of a blush as she gets closer and closer to telling Fury about the previous night's exploits, but he waves a dismissive hand at her and says, "I think I get the idea," for which she is relieved, and even grateful.

"Anything else you wanna tell me?"

Natasha chews on her lip, then meets Fury's stare.

"He's had his powers returned to him. He can do magic."

"And you didn't think you should have mentioned this _immediately_?" Fury stands, pressing a finger to his ear piece, ready to make contact with the others.

"His powers returned when he surrendered. He's been held captive, _willingly_. He's chosen _not_ to fight."

"Yeah, I seem to remember him making a similar choice that ended with us falling outta the sky…"

"It's not the same. Just _talk to him_ and you'll see," Natasha pleads, leaning forward in her seat, gazing up at him. "_Please_."

"Agent Barton will transfer you to your holding cell," he says coldly, before exiting the room and leaving Natasha alone to ponder her fate.

* * *

The wall flickers, and the whiteness vanishes, to reveal a viewing window to one of the interrogation rooms. Natasha has watched countless interviews from this position before, but never has the room been transformed into a cell. Never has it been devoid of all technology, all furniture, except a camp bed bolted to the floor. Clint stands by the door, his arms folded, his gaze fixed on the room beyond the window.

"Do we get sound?" Natasha asks.

"No."

Natasha sits on the bed, rubs her face tiredly, trying not to crack herself in the jaw with her cuffs, then looks up, trying to read Loki's lips as he speaks to Fury. She can't make out much from the side, but he doesn't look injured, which is good news, and he's managing to stay calm, which is even better news.

Fury stands and begins to pace around the room, his hands clasped behind him, Loki's eyes following his movements across the room until eventually he gives a one word answer, that Natasha, and anyone with a functioning pair of eyes can make out as a 'No'.

Fury frowns, and then turns, and Natasha watches, her breath held in her chest, because Loki, though calm, though cuffed, is not playing as expected.

After what seems like an age, Fury shrugs, and begins talking again, but then out of nowhere, his fist speeds towards Loki's face.

"No!" Natasha screams, jumping to her feet, but the fist does _not_ make contact. Loki's head turns, and Natasha knows that despite the thick concrete walls and the reinforced two-way glass, he has heard her cry. His face pales for a moment, his eyes searching the glass. At one point, he makes eye contact with her without realising, and Natasha discovers that one of the most unpleasant feelings in the world is having him look straight through her. His brow twitches into a slight frown, but then he turns back to Fury with an infuriating smile, and starts speaking once more.

After a few minutes without incident, Natasha retreats to the bed, curling up in the corner, resting her head against the wall, her legs tucked underneath her. She watches as Loki and Fury exchange words, Fury having a lot more to say to Loki than he had to say to her. Natasha doesn't know if this is a good thing or not, but she can take some comfort from the fact that Loki hasn't used magic yet, not even when Fury tried to get a rise out of him and dared him to defend himself.

Hours pass, and it's not until Natasha is nearly falling asleep that Loki and Fury shake hands. Natasha blinks, hardly daring to believe her eyes, but when she sees Clint, looking just as confused as she does, she knows that she's not hallucinating. Fury leaves the interrogation room, and as soon as the door is closed, Loki places his head in his hands, and lets out a deep sigh.

"What's he agreed to? Clint, what's he -?"

Clint shushes her, holding a hand to his ear piece, his eyebrows drawn together in a deep frown, then, without another word to Natasha, he leaves the room. She sighs and gets up from the bed, moving towards the glass. She presses her hands flat against it, watching Loki, now slumped forward on the desk, until she can bear it no more. She rests her forehead on the glass, cool against her skin, and closes her eyes.

She remains this way until Clint returns.

"Nat, you have to…come with me."

She opens her eyes and faces him. He's holding out the key to her cuffs and Natasha frowns as he unlocks them. When her wrists are free, she stretches, then hesitates, just for a second, before she follows Clint out of her holding cell.

Loki is waiting for her in one of the larger empty offices. He too is uncuffed, Fury standing guard in the corner, his hand on his gun, his thumb ready to flick the safety to the 'off' position.

"What's happening?" Natasha asks, walking swiftly towards Loki and looping her arms around his neck, pulling him close. She inhales deeply, the smell of him soothing her stress levels, but when she realises that his hands are hanging loosely by his sides, she pulls away.

"What's wrong?"

"I've made a bargain with Director Fury. I get to return to Asgard, if I return you to SHIELD."

"_Return me_?" Natasha repeats indignantly. "I'm not a faulty microwave, you can't just grab your receipt and –"

"Return you to your normal state of mind," Loki says, speaking over her. Natasha feels a cold fist clench around her heart at his words, and starts to back away, shaking her head.

"I _am_ in my normal state of mind."

Loki chuckles, his eyes flashing, and Natasha's blood runs cold. "My magic has rather improved since I played around with your partner in crime." He glances towards Clint, then back to Natasha. "So much so, in fact, that you're exhibiting no signs of mind control. When you showed up in Paris I could hardly resist trying out my new skills…"

"You didn't have your powers…you couldn't even _talk_," Natasha backs further and further away, but Loki follows, matching each step of hers with one of his own until he has her enclosed against the door, one hand pressed against the wall on her right, the other twirling a lock of her hair between his fingers. "I was rather pleased with the results," he says. "And you know, we _did_ have an awful lot of fun. Especially last night."

Natasha feels sick. She's trying to comprehend how not even twenty four hours ago, being this close to each other was nowhere close enough, and yet now, she wants to run, for miles and miles until she's completely rid of him.

"You know, you were almost as good as the whores on Asgard… though I admit that the thrill of the chase was far greater with you." He smirks, and presses a light kiss against Natasha's lips. She looks up into his eyes, expecting to see them shining with malice, with victory, but they're empty, completely devoid of emotion. He won't even look at her.

"Loki…"

"This won't hurt a bit," he says, his index finger grazing her cheek softly. He leans in close, his lips brushing against her ear, then whispers, "Forgive me."

"Loki, no, whatever you're about to -"

It's as though she's stepped into a dark room. Her rose tinted glasses have been removed and reality is made crystal clear for the first time in a long time. Blackness courses through her as she hits real life hard and fast, like a car crashing into a brick wall at a hundred miles an hour.

Loki steps away from her and turns. He walks towards Fury, and Natasha can hear his murmur, even from the other side of the room.

"She's all yours."

Things are still falling into place in her head, but when Natasha recalls her experiences from the previous night, her skin burns with anger. She clenches her fists, and tries to ignore the memories of him, over her, inside of her, but she can't. Bile rises in her throat as she recalls the unpleasant stench of sweat and damp and the staleness of his mattress.

"You _bastard_."

Loki doesn't acknowledge her. Instead, he speaks to Fury.

"Are we done here? Do you have means of contacting Thor? I can ask Heimdall to open the -"

Natasha throws herself at him with as much force as she can muster, her rage breaking loose, her normal, calculative methods of attack cast aside. She pummels him with her fists, every bit of him she can reach, not even pausing when she hits him so hard that she feels her knuckle crack and buckle. She just continues to punch and kick until she feels strong hands grip her shoulders and wrench her off of Loki.

She struggles against Clint, desperate to pull herself free, but Fury rushes Loki from the room before Natasha can prise Clint's fingers away. When the door is locked, Clint releases her, and Natasha falls to the ground, her entire body shaking.

She cannot remember the last time she cried – probably when she was a very small child. But now, the sobs rack her body. Clint lowers himself to the ground and wraps his arms around her, holding her close, her head tucked under his chin. Natasha grips the fabric of his jacket, trying to cling on to something she can rely on, something she can trust, something that's _real_.

"I'm gonna fucking kill him," she says breathlessly, wiping roughly at her eyes. "If it's the last thing I do, I'm gonna fucking kill him."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **You know what I love? You guys. Your reviews are awesome. I love your reactions, they are the BOOM TING. Hope you like this chapter. I'mma get on with writing the next one now. :)

* * *

**Golden**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

Fury offers her 'as much time as she needs'. What she _needs_ is to focus on her work. With Loki worlds away, she has no hope of hunting him down and serving up a little retribution. All she can do is keep her ear close to the ground, or hope that Thor will, for once, allow his brother to face the consequences of his actions. She hasn't seen him, however, and she'd have thought, that at the very least, she would have received an apology from him, if not for leaving her vulnerable to Loki's abuse, then at least on behalf of Loki. He was taken back to Asgard after New York on the condition that he would be properly tried and punished, not left free to roam other worlds and cause even more suffering.

"How are you sleeping?"

"Fine," Natasha says boredly. She hears the scratch of a biro on a notepad as her therapist writes a lot more than 'fine' in her notes, and Natasha rolls her eyes.

Every day, at eleven o'clock, Natasha is forced to spend an hour with a woman who charges three hundred dollars a session to display her extensive repertoire of concerned nods. Walking out is not an option – the door is bolted from the outside, and two agents stand guard until the clock strikes noon.

"No nightmares?"

"Sleep better than ever."

Her therapist, Rachel, scribbles some more notes, then looks up at Natasha quizzically, resting her chin on the heel of her palm.

"What?"

"You should have PTSD," Rachel muses, "Given the circumstances. But you're absolutely fine, aside from a few understandable anger issues, you're _absolutely fine_."

"Well can you tell my boss so I don't have to waste any more time in here? I do have a job to be doing, you know."

"But Natasha," Rachel says softly, "When someone experiences something as traumatic as you did, there is _always_ a reaction. People are never _just fine_."

"I've been through worse," Natasha replies quietly.

"D'you want to tal-"

"No."

Rachel sighs and leans back in her seat, linking her fingers together and tapping the back of her hand absentmindedly.

"I think you're a time bomb," she says at last. "You're ticking away and one day, you're going to wake up and everything's going to hit you. It won't be pretty."

"Mental breakdowns rarely are."

Rachel smiles briefly, and returns her attention to her notes, while Natasha sighs, reaching out a finger to flick the end ball of the Newton's Cradle on Rachel's desk. She watches the small shiny spheres swing back and forth, each _clack_ bringing her closer to the end of her hour.

* * *

She thinks it's a Saturday. She's not sure, but she thinks it is. She rolls over, squinting at the brightness of the digits on her alarm clock, then closes her eyes, trying to recall the events of the previous night.

There had been another of Tony's luminous cocktails – the ache in her bones tells her that much. There had also been vodka, and wine, at some point, maybe earlier in the evening. She does vaguely remember Clint shoving her out of a taxi in the early hours, and the nauseating elevator ride that followed. It's something of a miracle that she made it to bed however, and she can only put it down to divine intervention that she managed to change into her pyjamas.

Her phone vibrates, and she throws out a hand, feeling around on her bedside cabinet until her fingers close around it. She looks blearily at the screen until the words come into focus.

_Rooftop barbecue. 3pm. _

Natasha groans and buries her face in her pillow. Ever since 'the mess' (as she now refers to it) Tony has taken his role of social secretary to the max, organising nights out, inviting them over to Stark Tower to watch movies or play with whatever new ridiculous gadget he and Bruce have invented. It's nice, really, sweet even, and she does appreciate it. She also appreciates that the others show up without fail, every single time, no matter how tired they are from the previous outing. Natasha's also been informed that she's going to the opera next week with Pepper. She has no idea _which_ opera, but has simply been told not to make any plans while Tony arranges tickets for them.

Right now, she feels as though she's glued to the other Avengers. It's something which before 'the mess' would have irritated her no end. Now, however, she is glad to have her friends around her, even if she _is_ fine. As insular as she is, and as much as she enjoys quiet moments to herself, she had grown used to being cared about, or at least the _delusion_ of being cared about, during 'the mess'. Her friends have risen above all expectations however, Tony especially. Steve has drunk all of Tony's ridiculous cocktails without complaint, Bruce is a source of tranquillity amongst the madness, while Clint has remained the same, only ever a phone call away, and ready to drop everything for her at a request that will never come.

Her phone vibrates again and Natasha picks it up. The one word on her screen drags a sleepy smile to her lips.

_Breakfast?_

* * *

The chatter of the crowded diner does nothing to ease the pounding in her head, but Bruce has managed to secure a booth near the kitchen, a little set apart from the hustle and bustle of the main diner. Natasha pours herself a glass of iced water and drinks steadily, hoping that she'll feel the benefits of rehydration as soon as possible.

"Still feeling it?" Bruce asks.

Natasha nods and closes her eyes for a few seconds, before taking a deep breath and opening them to look at the menu.

They're quiet until their pancakes arrive, and even then, they exchange very few words. By the time Natasha's finished her pancakes, she feels a little more human, and Bruce looks a little more awake. Natasha taps her index finger against the table, her chin resting on the palm of her hand, while Bruce orders some more coffee. When the waitress has bustled away, he turns his gaze to Natasha, and raises an eyebrow.

"He asked me to forgive him," she says quietly.

Bruce frowns. "Loki?"

Natasha bristles at the sound of his name, and nods.

"When?"

"Just before he gave me my mind back."

Bruce's frown deepens, though it disappears momentarily while the waitress refills his coffee cup. She raises the jug, her eyes on Natasha, who shakes her head, and the waitress disappears back into the kitchen.

"He wants you to _forgive_ what he did?"

Natasha shrugs, her jaw set. Loki's words have been playing on her mind ever since her initial explosion of emotion died down, but she hasn't mentioned it to anyone, not even Clint. Bruce strokes his chin thoughtfully, his forehead creased in puzzlement, then after a while, he sighs.

"I don't know," he says. "But I wouldn't waste any time thinking about it. The guy's obviously insane."

"Yeah," Natasha says softly. "Obviously."

* * *

Her apartment looks strange without the painting above the fireplace. She doesn't know who removed it, but she's grateful, and not at the same time. It is conspicuous by its absence, and she spends far too long sitting in the arm chair staring at the spot where it used to rest, thinking about it.

It's obvious now, that his painting skills, his gift of the canvas, were simply to lure her in, to convince her there was another side to him. She should have known it was too good to be true, that it was just another one of his tricks, but, she got caught up, no thanks to Loki and his mind control games. She had never thought he would sink so low, would be so vicious and manipulative.

Perhaps it was all just a matter of revenge for her stunt at the cage, for winning. She doesn't know, and she probably shouldn't care, but she can't help but feel singled out, and she wants to know _why_. Of all the billions of people on the planet, why her? Why choose her to humiliate?

She looks up at the clock, and discovers that she's already late for Tony's barbecue, so she gets up with a sigh, grabs her bag, and heads for the door.

* * *

"Another drink, come on, just one more, _then_ bedtime."

Natasha shakes her head. "You already said that."

"Even _Steve's_ staying up, come on!" Tony shakes the bottle of vodka at her but Natasha shakes her head again.

"Actually, I was thinking of turning in too," Steve says, putting down his beer bottle by the side of his lounger and getting to his feet. "Sorry."

Tony lets out an indignant huff, then turns to Pepper for support. She doesn't offer any, and so he turns to Clint and Bruce, the latter snoring softly, his head resting against the side of his chair. Tony sighs, but Clint says, "I'll stay up for one more."

"Atta boy, Robin Hood," Tony replies, unscrewing the cap of the vodka bottle. "I will see _you losers_," he says, turning to Natasha and Steve, "In the morning."

"Any room on the guest floor is fine," Pepper says with a smile. "Just help yourselves."

Natasha smiles and thanks her, and then she and Steve head inside. The last she sees of Clint and Tony, they're balancing barbecue tongs on Bruce, along with empty beer bottles and shot glasses. Natasha rolls her eyes and looks up at Steve, who, to her surprise, is smiling, just a little.

"Hulk-aroo, apparently," he says, then clears his throat. "Very immature."

Natasha laughs and heads for the elevator, Steve following with a renewed expression of seriousness on his face.

When they arrive on the guest floor, Natasha chooses the room at the end of the hall, preferring its double aspect and cool tiled floors. She says goodnight to Steve and disappears into her room, closing the door behind her and relishing in the darkness. She's tired, more tired than she's been for a long time. She supposes it helps with her sleeping, and maybe that's why Tony's so insistent upon getting her drunk and tiring her out. He knows what it is to lay awake at night and think about the past, knows how much it can destroy you and everyone around you.

She slips off her shoes, pads over to the bed and pulls back the covers. She slings her bag onto the wicker rocking chair by the side of the bed, then runs her hands through her hair, wondering if she ought to go back for that last drink. Her mistake is thinking about 'the mess' just as she's about to get into bed. She can't let it be the last thing she thinks about, or it'll be the first thing her mind jumps to when she wakes up in the morning, and that's never a good start to the day.

Deciding that she has to learn to deal with her problems, rather than drowning them in vodka (as appealing as the idea might be) she climbs into bed and pulls the covers up over herself, closes her eyes, and thinks of the ongoing game of Hulk-aroo, her lips curving into a smile.

* * *

The crash shocks her into consciousness. She doesn't know how long she's been asleep for, but suddenly the lights are on, and Clint is next to her on the bed, his arms around her protectively, while Steve storms around the room, checking under the bed, in the wardrobe, the bathroom, and every other nook and cranny in the room. Bruce is leaning against the door, rubbing his face tiredly, looking confused and still a little drunk. Tony, meanwhile, is standing stock still, the furious expression on his face a world apart from the smiles and laughter of earlier.

"What's going on?" Natasha asks, breaking free of Clint and standing up. "What the hell?"

"Jarvis said there was a break in," Tony replies, his tone dark.

"The intruder has left the building, sir." Jarvis' cool voice sounds over the intercom and Tony grits his teeth.

"How the _hell _did he get in?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Not through the window," Steve says, inspecting the frames, "And not through the balcony door, either. It's locked from the inside."

"Who was it?" Natasha asks quietly, her gaze fixed on the floor tiles. She knows that all of them hear her, can tell from the sudden silence that they've heard her question loud and clear. She also knows that none of them want to answer her, and by not answering, they tell her everything she needs to know. She clenches her fists, rage bubbling inside of her.

"We don't know it was him," says Steve in a rush. "Not for certain, right?"

"It could have been anything, Nat," Clint says softly. "Could have been a squirrel stuck in the air con, or...just, _anyone_."

Natasha ignores him, and looks up at Tony. She knows that he wouldn't have hauled them all out of bed for a squirrel, and she also knows that he's worried. None of the alarms sounded, and Natasha's willing to bet that Jarvis had to battle through layers upon layers of deception and obstacles just to get the message to Tony.

"Was it him?" she asks.

Tony nods.

Natasha's stomach drops. She had never suspected anything else, but having her suspicions confirmed affects her more than she thought it would. She sits down on the bed, resting her head in her hands. Clint places a comforting hand on her back, and she wants to shake him off, doesn't want him to feel her trembling. He'll think that she's scared, and she's _not_. She's _angry_, angry that he was here, that he had the _audacity_ to show his face, and angry that she wasn't awake to exact revenge on him.

She opens her eyes, and then notices her bag, placed neatly on the bedside cabinet, the lamp moved a few inches to the left to provide enough space. She then turns her attention to the wicker rocking chair, swaying gently back and forth. She inhales, and it might be her mind playing tricks on her, but she's sure she can smell the faint aroma of sweet, well-worn leather. Her stomach churns, and for a moment, she thinks she might vomit, but she swallows down the urge, clenching her jaw, eyes clamped shut.

"Natasha?"

She opens her eyes to see Tony, squatting in front of her. He reaches out a hand and closes it around one of her own, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"First thing tomorrow, we're going to your apartment and moving all your stuff here. _Everyone_ is moving in. We're gonna stick together through this. We're not gonna leave you on your own."

"But he managed to break in here," Natasha says hoarsely. "He doesn't know where my apartment is, he hasn't been there, he hasn't -"

"I don't wanna make you feel worse," Tony says softly. "But the only thing we're sure of is that he hasn't been _caught_ at your apartment."

"Do we know how long he was here for?" Clint asks.

"Jarvis?"

"Perhaps twenty minutes, sir. He disabled nearly all of my primary functions. You may want to rewrite my fix, sir, it was done as quickly as possible and probably isn't my best work."

"You did fine, Jarvis," Tony replies quietly. "You did great."

"Are you hurt?" Clint asks, moving to Natasha's side to check her over. She shakes her head, but he continues to cast his eyes over her, making certain. "You want me to stay? Or, you can sleep in my room, if you want. You can have the bed."

Natasha shakes her head. "No thanks. I'll be fine."

"Sure?"

Natasha nods, but Tony shakes his head.

"It's…" he checks his watch. "Three thirty. We take an hour each. Hawkeye, you take the first. Bruce, you come with me. We need to upgrade Jarvis' firewall. Steve, get some sleep, you're up at six-thirty."

Steve nods sharply and leaves, Bruce gives Natasha a searching look, and she forces a smile, which placates him enough to head down to the basement with Tony.

She's left alone in the silence with Clint, who moves to the wicker rocking chair to take his watch.

"Clint you don't have to -"

"Yeah I do." They're silent for a moment, and then Clint asks, "Are you scared?"

"_No_."

Clint's silence communicates his disbelief better than words could.

"In a fair fight, I could hold my own against him," Natasha says. "But if he takes over my head, he can make me do anything."

"I'm not gonna let anything happen to you," Clint says, leaning forward and taking her hand. "I swear to you, I won't let him hurt you."

Natasha holds his gaze, then gets back into bed and lays down. Jarvis dims the lights for her, until it's dark enough to sleep but not so dark that she can't see Clint's features. She doesn't know what this watch is supposed to achieve. Loki's got his powers back, he's basically indestructible, especially without Thor's aid, and Clint isn't even _armed_.

But, she supposes, he'd only need to hold Loki off long enough to wake Natasha, and then she can have Loki all to herself.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **So I'm at a family shindig tomorrow, and then the following day I'm heading back to the north (where I'm kept awake by the town clock, as opposed to the sound of the tube) and then the day after I'm back at work, full time, so I guess what I'm trying to say is that I wouldn't hold your breath for a new update tomorrow. Sunday evening if you're very lucky (and I'm very productive) but if not then maybe sometime in the week. But I hope this will keep you happy until such time.

* * *

**Golden**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

These days, she takes her orders and gets on with them. Currently, she is buried in a mountain of files that Fury has given her. She's not sure what she's supposed to be looking for, but she'll know when she finds it. She'll get that twinge in her gut that flags up something important, and then she'll retrace her footsteps and figure out exactly why. She has the suspicion that there's nothing much to find, and that Fury is just trying to keep her busy, keep her mind occupied, so she doesn't notice the constant level of security around her.

She can't even go to the bathroom without an armed escort.

Eventually, she gets some time alone with Clint. They manage to sneak off to a bar on the upper west side, and to be able to roam the streets, to be able to choose where she wants to go and when, without having to wait for a security detail to get themselves together, or for it to be signed off by Fury is something of a relief. It feels like she's finally stretching her legs after the world's longest car journey, and she actually manages to laugh, something she hasn't done properly since…well, since 'the mess'.

She sips her wine, trying not to snigger as she and Clint watch the progress of a ridiculously drunk man try and make his way to the exit. He stumbles, grabs onto the pool table, and somehow ends up on his knees. Natasha and Clint let out a burst of barely stifled laughter, but their fun is short lived as one of the man's friends walks up to him, shaking his head, then hauls him to his feet and shows him the door.

Their amusement dies down, and Natasha can feel the heat of the wine, roaming through her body. She looks at Clint, takes a breath, but then forces a smile and takes a large gulp of her wine.

"What's the matter?"

Natasha shakes her head.

"Nat."

She sets down her glass, her fingers stroking the thin stem. It takes her a long time to work up the courage to say what she wants to say. Once she says it out loud, it's an actual _thing_. It's not just a thought that can be pushed to the back of her mind or forgotten about or ignored. Once she says it aloud, it exists. She looks up at Clint, and says the words quickly, before she can change her mind.

"I'm thinking of quitting."

To Natasha's surprise, Clint doesn't _look_ surprised.

"Because of what happened with him?" he asks. He takes a swig of his beer and waits for her answer.

"No, but the result. This isn't how I want to live my life…constantly looking over my shoulder and seeing half a dozen agents watching me. How am I ever gonna _do_ anything?"

"But what if he comes after you?"

This is something that's been playing on her mind. She has to choose between the lesser of two evils – the rest of her life suffocating under the protection of SHIELD, or risking the possibility that he will come for her, and he will use his powers on her again.

"I'll say this," Clint continues. "He had twenty minutes with you that night he broke in. And as far as we can tell, he didn't lay a finger on you. I'm not sure he actually wants to hurt you."

Natasha's stomach churns, and it takes a minute for Clint's words to process properly. "After what he _did_? You think he doesn't want to _hurt me_?"

"I just think he's had plenty of opportunity," Clint replies, leaning back on his stool, elbow resting on top of the bar. "Don't think that I don't understand why you hate him, because I _do_, but I really don't think he's gonna try anything."

Natasha stands, not wanting to listen to another word of what Clint has to say. "You think he breaks in to my room to what? Make sure I'm doing okay? Because I was doing _fine_ before he started fucking up my head. I don't _need him_. I don't _want him_. The only thing I want is for him to leave me the fuck alone!"

She's shaking, and she has tears in her eyes, and now, everybody's stopped to watch, which only makes things worse. She's at her weakest, her anger and her humiliation churning around inside her and she's on the brink of fucking _sobbing_ when she prides herself on _always_ being able to keep her emotions in check. She has never felt so fucking fragile in all her life, she has always been strong, always been able to compete in a world of men and come out on top.

But maybe this is the time bomb Rachel was talking about. Maybe this is when things are about to get messy.

She storms from the bar, Clint following, but she slams the door in his face, hears the crack of the glass against his nose, and the groan that follows, then flags down the first cab that she sees. She opens the door, slides in, and then they're away, before Clint has a hope of chasing after them.

* * *

She pushes open the door to her apartment, vodka bottle in hand, and kicks off her shoes as soon as she's inside. She frowns when she realises the lights are on, and closes the door quietly. She can hear very soft sounds of movement, and her heart pounds in her chest, her breaths coming slow and shaky. She creeps along the hallway, placing the vodka bottle on the floor, almost sighing in relief when it doesn't make a sound, then peers around the doorframe.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?"

He swivels around on his stool, a long, thin paintbrush clamped between his teeth, a thicker one in his right hand while he mixes colours on his palette. He takes the brush from his mouth, bites his lip in hesitation for a moment, and then says, "Admiring the view?"

The large canvas set up in front of her window confirms that – it's littered with inky blues and small specks of yellow and white. She can see the dark, shadowy shapes that form the ever recognisable skyline of the city she's come to call home, and for a moment, all she can do is stare at the painting. When she tears her eyes away, she looks around the apartment. There's a half empty Chinese take-out carton on the coffee table, chopsticks poking out of the top. A bottle of merlot is next to it, along with a clean glass, reflecting the bright whiteness of the spotlights. Loki's leather jacket is slung over the sofa, and, on the mantelpiece, is her portrait.

She doesn't know what to do. He's made himself at home in the apartment that he's driven her out of. He's supposed to be on the other side of the universe and yet, here he is, in her home, painting and eating take-out.

"I thought the deal was that you went back to Asgard," Natasha says quietly.

"I did go back. Thor came to collect me."

"And yet here you are," Natasha says, moving forward into the room, crossing her arms and bracing herself. At any moment, she might need to defend herself, but first, she wants answers.

"I grew accustomed to Earth. They don't have this on Asgard." He raises the take-out carton, and takes the chopsticks, picking up with his dinner where he left off.

"You're not supposed to be here."

"Actually, I don't think _that_ was part of the agreement," he says between mouthfuls. His indifference to the situation, his casualness, is soul destroying. He doesn't give a damn about the hurt and the humiliation, he doesn't care that he's ruined her life, taken away her freedom, her feeling of _safety_. All he cares about is eating noodles and painting skylines and that god damn leather jacket that she never should have bought for him.

"Why me?" Natasha blurts out. "Why did you have to choose me?"

He stops chewing and looks up at her, then swallows.

"I didn't choose you," Loki says, placing his carton back on the coffee table. "You chose me."

"I bought you dinner when you were starving and you repay me with mind-tricks? Could you not just -?" There is a lump in her throat that grows and grows as she talks, until it's impossible for her to continue, tears prickling in the corners of her eyes.

Loki stands, and Natasha backs away immediately. Suddenly, she finds herself wishing Clint were here, or Bruce, or Steve, or Tony or _anyone_, because she's already found out the hard way that she can't protect herself against him. Right now, she's terrified that if she lets him touch her, then he'll be able to control her again. There is nothing more horrifying to her than the prospect of not being able to make her own decisions, or think her own thoughts, or just being in control of her own body.

"Don't come any closer," Natasha whispers.

"Natasha…" he takes a step forward, and Natasha sidles along the wall, closer to the bedroom, glancing towards the door. There is a gun hidden in the third drawer down of her dresser. If she's fast enough, she can get there before Loki can react, which will give her perhaps two seconds to load the gun and take aim. She looks back at him, and he's even closer, one pale hand reaching out for her.

"I'm fucking _warning you_!"

Loki retreats, his hands raised in front of him. Natasha breathes a little easier, but doesn't stop scowling at him until he backs into the window, giving her perhaps an extra second to get to the dresser.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

"No?" Natasha replies sarcastically. "And you expect me to believe that after what you _did_?"

Loki closes his eyes and rests the back of his head against the glass. "You don't understand…"

"Get out."

"You think Thor would have welcomed me back to Asgard with open arms if I'd become _that_? You really think my father would have returned my powers to me, my speech, if I'd done _that_?"

"Just get out. Now."

"_Listen to me_."

Natasha shakes her head. "I can put a bullet through your skull in three seconds. If you don't get out -"

"_Fine_." He strides towards the sofa, picks up his jacket and throws it on in one fluid motion. Then, he grabs his carton from the table and, in the blink of an eye, he's gone. He's left his canvas and all of his painting materials, but she assumes he'll come back for those another time. She just hopes it's not tonight.

Natasha moves over to the sofa and collapses onto it, covering her face with her hands, her breaths coming in sharp, panicked gasps. She can't _believe_ him. Even worse, she can't believe _herself_. She has been ready to kill him with her bare hands, ever since she fell into the deep abyss that is the reality of what he did to her. But as soon as she saw him, as soon as he started to approach, she was paralysed with fear, terrified that he would once again render her powerless.

She digs the heels of her palms into her face, then, after a few moments in which her heart eventually returns to a normal rhythm, she takes her hands away and glances around the apartment. Balanced on the window sill, next to Loki's discarded paint palette, is a glass of wine, almost empty. Natasha frowns, then looks to the clean glass sitting next to the bottle, which, now she's paying attention, she realises is half empty.

Frowning, Natasha gets up and walks around the room, trying to spot any other differences from when she was last here. He's made the living room his own, has more or less moved in, and Natasha grits her teeth in annoyance. She pokes her head into her bedroom and can tell, immediately, that he's been sleeping in her bed. The sheets have been changed, the duvet is resting smoothly on top of the mattress, something which is at odds with her usual sort-of-neat-ish style.

One of his t-shirts hangs on the back of her chair, and she wonders why on earth he's still wearing his human clothes. Surely he gets to have his cape and his horns and all that leather back again, and yet he chooses to skulk around in the same faded jeans and thin cotton t-shirts. The window is ajar, the curtains swaying softly in the breeze, the air a little chilly. She shakes her head and moves on to the kitchen, her fingers brushing against the wall. She feels bizarrely anxious, despite him being gone. She doubts he'll have done any real damage to her apartment, but all the same, she hates the idea of him having been there, the possibility that he'll have changed things, or worse, left some sort of indelible trace behind that means she'll never be able to return here.

The only trace he's left behind in the kitchen, however, is a bag with the rest of his take-out. Some clean crockery has been left on the draining board, along with a mug, but otherwise, the place is the same as ever. She takes a look into the bag on the counter, and sees one other carton, a pair of chopsticks, and nothing else. The carton's still warm, and so she takes it out and opens it, inspecting the contents.

The smell almost brings a small smile to her face. It's Pad Thai, and looks delicious. She wonders how Loki knew she was coming, but when she decides that she'd have to be an idiot to eat it, despite her rumbling stomach, she opens the bin and realises that he _didn't_ know she was coming.

For every empty take-out container in her bin, there's a full one containing something she would have happily eaten. Natasha stares for a moment, then dumps the Pad Thai on top of the rest, and closes the bin lid with a snap.

* * *

When Natasha wakes, it is a long time before she resolves to get up. She stares at the ceiling for what feels like an eternity, before eventually rolling out of bed. She stumbles, and grabs the back of the chair to steady herself. The first thing she notices is that Loki's t shirt is gone. She then looks to the window and sees that it's closed. She remembers waking up in the night feeling chilly, but decided that burying herself deeper into her duvet would be preferable to getting out of bed to solve the problem at its root.

She hurries into the lounge, only to discover that Loki's easel, canvas, palette, brushes, and all other signs of his having been there are gone. Even the bottle of merlot has disappeared, both glasses along with it. She frowns and heads into the kitchen, only to find it spotless. She pops the lid of the bin to find a fresh, empty black liner inside. No take-outs. No wine bottles. No nothing.

Initially, she wonders if her mind is playing tricks on her, if it's part of the break down that Rachel promised. It was definitely on the cards last night, after Clint's idiotic suggestion that Loki's not _dangerous_. He of all people should know the extent of Loki's powers, should understand exactly why she's so petrified of him rolling in and taking over her head again, and yet somehow, he doesn't think it's an issue.

She takes a seat on the sofa and stares at the mantel, working through her options. She could quit. Quit, and leave and never have to deal with any of this again. Except, Loki will find her, eventually. And she'll be on her own. Or, she can stay, and be surrounded by people who have her best interests at heart. And with that, she can kiss goodbye to her freedom.

Either way, she's always going to be looking over her shoulder.

She blinks, and then realises that her portrait is gone. Before she can even begin to question why Loki would want to take her portrait with him, there is a knock at the door. Natasha grits her teeth and stands. She knows it isn't Loki, because he wouldn't bother to knock. She looks through the peep-hole, then sighs heavily, and reluctantly opens the door.

"I'm sorry."

The skin on the bridge of his nose is split and puffy, deep red lines marring his face. She feels a twinge of regret, but stifles it quickly. She's felt enough lately.

"I don't care."

"I should be more supportive," Clint says, squeezing into her apartment through the narrow gap she's left between the door and the wall. "But I just didn't want you turning into a paranoid mess, that's all."

Natasha ignores him and walks down the hall, back to the lounge. He follows, and she can feel her patience running low, her desire to throw him out of the apartment growing with every single second.

"He was here last night you know."

Clint stops in the doorway and Natasha turns around. "He's been living here. Was waiting for me when I got back."

"You should have called…" Clint says softly, his gaze directed at the floor. "I'd have come over."

"Do you not remember what it was like to have him rule you? Do you not remember having every single decision be _his_ decision? Do you not remember becoming the person you swore you'd never be, all because of him?"

"Of _course_ I remember -"

"Then how can you tell me that he doesn't want to _hurt me_?" Natasha turns away and places a shaky hand to her forehead. "I can't handle this anymore, Clint, I just _can't_."

"I know," he replies. She hears him step towards her, but she won't face him. She doesn't want him to see her when she's weak. "That's why I'm here."

Something about Clint's response doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel like an apology, or even understanding. "What?"

She turns on the spot, and the last thing she sees is the butt of Clint's pistol, hurtling towards her face.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **So I've basically doubled my chapter count in the space of what, six days? A week, maybe? Surprised I managed to actually get this out, what with all the Comic Con clips that are around. BAH. Also, just a little bit of shameless whoring, if you want to keep up to date with my random shiz, then feel free to come follow me on tumblr. The link's in my profile. I mostly have mental breakdowns over Loki and this fic over there, and the more the merrier! Hope you like this.

* * *

**Golden**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

The bright white lights blind her, and so she squeezes her eyes tight shut. A lock of hair is tickling her cheek, but when she goes to move it, she finds her wrists restrained. She opens her eyes, tilting her head up and squinting, to see that she's cuffed to a hospital bed. She falls back onto her pillows with a groan then looks to her visitor, now understanding why she's been secured.

"Sorry," Clint says. "But you had it coming."

Her head is still fuzzy, the events of the morning filtering through her brain in dribs and drabs. She can't quite grasp the full picture, but now everything seems very distant, almost as though she's looking at it through the wrong end of a telescope.

"Cognitive recalibration," Clint tells her. "Only way to be sure." He has the good grace to give her an apologetic smile, but Natasha just groans and closes her eyes, her head pounding.

"I'm confused," she says at last, eyes still closed, hair still tickling her face.

"You're not the only one," Clint replies. He pauses, and then says, "He's here, if you want to speak to him. He won't come until you're ready."

"Until I'm ready to break his neck?"

"I think he was hoping you'd be ready to talk but I can go check."

Natasha chuckles softly. "Can I have my hands back?"

Clint's answer comes in the sound of a key being inserted into a lock, and seconds later, one of her wrists is free. He walks around to the other side of the bed, and moments later, the other one is released too. Immediately, she brushes her hair away from her face and sits up, blinking in the harsh light. She recognises the room, and realises she's at HQ, which is puzzling, when she considers the information Clint's given her. From the sounds of it, Loki is a guest, as opposed to a prisoner. In fact, _she's_ the one who's been cuffed.

She doesn't know how to feel. There is a whirlpool of emotions churning in her chest, but she cannot for the life of her tell which ones actually belong to her. Last night, she was furious with Loki, terrified of him, and now, after being hit over the head, she's not sure. She's still _scared_, but she's not sure that she needs to be, at least not of what he'd do to her physically. Mentally, however, she hardly even knows who she is, and the knowledge that he can dictate who she is and how she feels that fuels her fear.

"Do you trust him?"

Clint laughs. "Not one bit. But I know you. And as much as it pains me to say it, you were more _you_ when you were trying to convince us that he's a good guy."

Natasha chews on the inside of her cheek, but nothing in her head makes sense. She's been messed around with too much, no longer knows up from down, and all she's gotten for her troubles is a pounding headache.

"Thor's here."

"Great."

"Loki didn't have his powers until the apartment. He's confirmed. There's no way Loki could have used mind control on you."

Natasha sighs and draws her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. This is all too much to handle. At some point, Loki's fucked with her head - that much is certain. But if it took him fucking with her head to make her hate him, then maybe, just maybe, he doesn't want to harm her. Not really. Maybe it's not revenge for the cage or whatever other slights he can list. Maybe, he has some sort of explanation. Maybe.

* * *

The silence is uncomfortable. He watches her from the chair next to the bed, his large round eyes looking up at her, waiting, waiting. He's wearing the same clothes as the night before, and there are faint stains of dark blue paint on the backs of his hands and the tips of his fingers.

"Not rocking the horns today?"

He smiles briefly and looks down at the floor. "Not really my style, these days…"

Natasha doesn't respond, and eventually Loki looks up at her, his eyes bright.

"I thought if I went back to Asgard I could forget about everything. If I was welcomed back by my family, that that would be enough."

"But…"

"I had grown used to the conveniences of Earth."

"So basically you came back because you can't get a latte on Asgard?"

Loki stands, and the sudden movement causes Natasha's breath to hitch in her throat. He whirls around at the sound, his eyebrows contorted into a frown, but upon seeing her, his face softens, and he draws closer. Natasha leans away from him, her pillows compacting behind her, and Loki sighs, turning away.

"You need not be afraid of me."

"I'm not _afraid_ of you. I'm just not _stupid_."

Loki rubs his thumb and forefinger together, his lips skewed. "I wanted to see you," he says eventually, his words coming out in a rush, as though it had been against his better judgement to say them at all. "I wanted to see you and so I came back."

"What were you doing in Stark Tower?"

He opens his mouth, but the words die in his throat. Apparently he hadn't been expecting that question. Natasha continues to gaze at him, refusing to move the conversation forward until he answers. His presence at her bedside that night has been driving her insane – it's what her mind jumps to every time she has a spare moment. Always the same question. Why?

"I don't know," he says, his voice hoarse. "I don't know."

"You were there for twenty minutes," Natasha presses.

"Look," Loki says, "Fury was never going to believe you voluntarily did any of the things we did. He was never going to let me walk out of this building with you. Nothing I said would convince him it was a good idea." He runs a hand through his hair and paces over to the window, staring out across the city. "I told him I had corrupted you. Told him I'd addled your mind with magic, and that I could release you with a single touch, on the condition that I could return to Asgard. I told the truth, and yet he would only believe the lie."

"And you want me to feel _sorry_ for you? Pity you, because my boss wouldn't believe that the guy who tried to take over the planet is suddenly Mr Nice Guy?"

"I never claimed to be nice!" he snaps, twisting to face her. "And I never will. I claimed to -" he falters, then turns back to the window, resting a clenched fist against the glass.

"To what?" Natasha asks softly. She sees his shoulders hunch as he inhales, then relax as he releases a heavy sigh. She's unsure as to whether his vulnerability is a carefully constructed façade, designed to lure her in, or whether he is genuinely struggling to put his emotions into words.

"He refused to believe that your mind was your own. Either I had tricked you, or you'd switched sides. He was talking about locking you up, if that were the case. I had to release you or he'd make sure you never saw daylight again, because you'd never show any signs of having been corrupted. There was no way out."

"So let me get this straight," Natasha says, scowling. "Fury thought you'd fucked with my head, so you decided, in your infinite wisdom, that the best thing you could do, was _fuck with my head?_"

"You have your freedom, don't you?" he snarls, "You have your job, your friends. Life is the _same_ for you. You hated me just as much as you did before."

"But you can't _do that!_ You can't just start messing around with my head!"

"I didn't 'mess around' with your head," Loki says calmly. "I coloured your perception of me. It's an entirely different process.'

"Oh _well_, if it's an _entirely different process_, then I guess that's just fine," Natasha says snidely. "Go ahead and 'colour my perceptions' as much as you please! Be my guest!"

"I tried to do the right thing!" He turns and strides towards her, his face twisted with rage and frustration. "For once in my life I put somebody else first and myself last! And look what good it does!"

"You didn't put yourself _last_," Natasha argues. "You got back to Asgard! You got exactly what you wanted!"

"I wanted you!" he bellows. Up close, Natasha can see that his eyes are overbright, his jaw trembling minutely.

"Then you should have stayed. Should have bargained more, should have convinced Fury that you're not here for war."

"If I'd stayed you'd have lost your job, your friends, their respect. You'd have been tarred with my brush, through no fault of your own."

"It was my decision to make."

"I was just making it easy for you. You were always going to choose SHIELD."

This throws Natasha. Does he really think that had she been able to choose one, and one alone, that she would have chosen a job over him? Does he really think things would have been that simple? Does he really think that she would have cast him aside in favour of a life alone? A lump grows in her throat as she realises that she has to be honest with him, and worse, that she has to be honest with herself about her feelings for him.

"I've never really been happy…" she says quietly, stumbling slightly over her phrasing. "Not that I've been _un_happy. I've always just been…me." She bites her lip and looks down at her hands, carefully negotiating her way through her next words. "I was happy when I was with you. I _enjoyed_ being with you."

Loki sits down on the edge of her bed and watches her intently, his jaw jutting forward just a little, his cheekbones more pronounced than ever.

"You left, though. That morning."

"To go to _work_!" Natasha says, her voice jumping up a few tones in disbelief. "Not for good! I was always going to come back."

Loki has nothing to say to that. His jaw juts out further, his expression becoming even sulkier.

"You think I'd have chosen SHIELD over you because I chose to go to _work_?"

"Not just that," Loki says quietly. "But you were always going to leave when they summoned you. Not just once, but every single time. And if I summoned you, would you have dropped them? Would you have run to me as willingly as you would to them?"

"If you really needed me," Natasha murmurs.

"You see? Even now there are conditions placed upon seeing me, but not them. Don't sit there and tell me you would have willingly lost your job, your friends, the basis of your entire life. Do _not _lie to me."

"So instead I lose you? And I get no say, no warning, no nothing, and you just snatch away the only happiness I've ever known? And you can't even leave me with the memories, you have to taint those too? You leave me thinking that you _used_ me, _abused_ me, and I'm supposed to believe it was for my own good?"

"I did what I thought was best."

Natasha shakes her head, and can feel tears prickling in the corners of her eyes.

"Get out," she mumbles.

"Natasha, please -"

"I said _get out_."

He doesn't move, just stares at her with those bright green eyes that she's come to know so well, and Natasha breathes in deeply, trying to gather some patience.

"I don't care if you _thought_ you were doing the right thing. You did the wrong thing by fucking with my head. I'm never going to be able to trust you ever again. Do you understand that? Never."

Loki's eyes close, his hand moving to cover them. He takes a couple of deep breaths, then stands suddenly. He heads towards the door, and within seconds he is gone, without so much as a glance in Natasha's direction.

She pulls her blankets up to her chin and stares out of the window, while her head tries to convince her heart that she's done the right thing.

* * *

"You mad?"

Natasha shakes her head.

"Really? Cause I'd be mad at me right now."

"You did what you thought was best…without 'colouring my perceptions'. I wouldn't have believed him, if I'd been in your position."

"I should have believed _you_," Fury says emphatically. "But I guess given that he'd managed to brainwash two of the sharpest men I know, I thought he'd managed to brainwash one of the sharpest women I know, too."

Natasha smiles wryly to herself. Perhaps 'brainwashing' is too strong a word, but Loki's effect on her mind, even without magic, had left her an entirely different person; the sort of person who would instinctively find his hand while they were strolling through the crowded streets of Paris, just to be certain that he was definitely there, with her, the sort of person who checks her phone for text messages first thing in the morning and last thing at night. That was _not_ Agent Romanov, not at all, so she can hardly blame Fury for not believing that she was her true self when she was clinging to such childish notions of love and affection.

"How come you let him in?" she asks.

"Thor vouched for him. Told us what he'd done. Agent Barton had expressed concerns also."

"What kind of concerns?"

"He said your reaction speeds were shameful. You were docile. Distant. Paranoid. Given what you'd been through, we just thought you were…recovering."

Natasha raises an eyebrow.

"Agent Barton pointed out that your recovery time is always the bare minimum. And when Loki broke into Stark's place and didn't lay a finger on you…well. He began to think there'd been a mistake."

Fury has the decency to look embarrassed about the humungous fuck up that's blown up right under his nose, but Natasha can't bring herself to care too much. Judging by Loki's idea of 'the right thing', he was always going to use mind control on her at some point, with some lousy justification or unstable moral ground for it. She's just glad that it happened sooner, rather than later, before she risked too much, before she quit her job for no damn reason.

"You know we could work around it, if you and him wanted to…I mean, no mixing business with pleasure. There'd have to be special clearance, he wouldn't be allowed in the building…"

"We're not -" Natasha begins, but then she stops, takes a breath, and tries again. "_I_ have no interest in being with him."

"Well if that changes -"

"It won't," Natasha says quickly.

"If it _does_," Fury continues, staring at her, his eye not blinking even once. "You have to tell me. Immediately."

"It won't change," Natasha assures him.

Fury chuckles and leans back in his chair, his hands linked behind his head. "Love is _stupid_, Agent Romanov," he says. "And the sooner you realise that, the sooner your head will give in to your heart."

"But I _shouldn't_ let my head give in to my heart."

"My heart's made some pretty dumbass decisions in my life. But I'll tell you something: my head has made a whole lot more."

"So you think I should _forgive _him? That I should _be_ with him?" Natasha asks dumbfounded. She hadn't expected this. She almost starts to wonder if Loki's corrupted Fury, as revenge, or perhaps even just for fun.

"Hell no!" Fury exclaims. "You can do better than him. He's an asshole. But what I _am_ saying, is that only a _dumbass_ throws away a chance to be happy because they're convinced that their head is wiser than their heart."

Natasha chews her lower lip thoughtfully, now more confused than ever before. She has always relied on her head, her heart reduced to another vital organ that does a physical job and nothing more. To listen to her heart would feel like a betrayal to herself. Hearts don't deal with facts and figures and probability. They deal with spontaneity and whimsy and _yearning_ and a whole host of things that Natasha has no patience for.

"Get some rest," Fury says, getting to his feet. "And try not to be too pissed at Barton for the…" he gestures towards his own forehead, and Natasha raises a hand to gently feel the surgical strips covering her stitches. "He means well."

"Yeah," Natasha says quietly, letting her hand fall back down onto her blankets. "Doesn't everybody?"


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **Yay, new chapter. Thanks for your reviews you gorgeous things. I hope you're having lovely weekends, and that you enjoy this chapter. I'm so totally going to nap now.

* * *

**Golden**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

Upon waking, the first thing Natasha notices, is a pleasant smell. She rolls over to check the time on her alarm clock, but blocking her view is a paper coffee cup, complete with plastic lid, steam spiralling out of the small hole in the top, and a brown paper bag with something quite large inside, the paper speckled with small grease stains. She sits up and looks around, attuning her hearing to detect any disturbance of the silence, but there is nothing. She narrows her eyes, pulls back her duvet, and slides out of bed.

There is no one in the lounge. Nor is there anybody in the bathroom. The kitchen is empty too. She doesn't bother checking a second time; she can sense she is alone and she knows who was here. Knows he won't have lingered.

She returns to bed and props up her pillows, settling herself in and pulling the duvet around her. She takes the coffee and has a small sip of it, her lips curving into a smile as she swallows. The moment of peace is broken by the sound of her phone vibrating, and when she sees his name, her jaw clenches, her eyebrows dropping forward into a scowl.

_I realise I'm better at losing trust than gaining it. Coffee and croissants can't be a terrible start though, can it?_

Natasha puts the phone down and doesn't reply. Instead, she takes another sip of her coffee then places it on the bedside cabinet, before taking the croissant, still warm, and biting a large chunk out of it.

Coffee and croissants don't gain trust, she knows he must know that. But he was certainly right to think that it wasn't a bad idea. She could definitely get used to it, anyway.

Regardless of the motivations behind it, the coffee is a good start to her day, so by the time she arrives at HQ, she's in a fairly decent mood. People are still tiptoeing around her, which grates on her. Except for Tony, naturally, who stomps around on eggshells without an ounce of hesitancy.

"Hook up with any war criminals last night?" he calls across the room.

Natasha doesn't know whether to smirk, or throw something at him. She can see why he's amused by the situation, she's not an idiot, but his phrasing rattles her, just a little. It makes her sound like such an idiot for getting involved with Loki in the first place, strips away all of the emotions, all of the context, and lays it bare as what it is. And it makes her feel like a fool.

Not even Bruce's stamp on Tony's foot can prevent his next words.

"You know, I hear Stalin was a rascal with the ladies. He'd have been your type, right?"

Bruce takes a step to the right, and Tony doesn't see the computer mouse heading straight for his face until it's entirely too late.

She's up to her eyeballs in files, lost in her own little world of line graphs and maps and case studies. When she looks up, she sees Thor sitting in front of her, waiting patiently for her attention. She has no idea how long he's been there, didn't notice him even come in. She closes her file and moves it to one side, looking up at Thor curiously.

"Long time, no see," she says.

"Indeed," Thor replies.

"You were very distant throughout his...exile."

"I had to be. Heimdall kept me updated on his progress. I was never as distant as you, or he, might think."

Natasha raises an eyebrow and takes a sip of her coffee, her gaze never leaving Thor. She has a feeling that she knows why he's here, and an inkling that she'll be asking him to leave very very soon.

"Loki means well."

There it is. She sighs, without any attempt to disguise her impatience. The amount of times she's heard in the last few days that people _mean well_, that they're just trying to _do the right thing_, and all it ever does is end up damaging her. She'd rather they had bad intentions, because she knows how to handle those. She can be ruthless and cruel and vengeful when she wishes.

It's forgiveness she has trouble with.

"I understand your concerns, but Loki saw no other way out. No other way out that didn't damage you, that is."

"Oh, and using mind-control isn't damaging? Leaving me trapped in hour long therapy sessions was the best possible outcome for me?"

"He coloured your perception, it's different to -" Thor notices the stony expression on Natasha's face and changes his tact. "He thought if he could make things like they were before you met in Paris, then things would go back to normal for you. I understand that they did not, but it is what he tried to achieve. He tried to undo all the trouble he had caused you by being around you. He wished to protect you from himself."

Natasha takes a deep breath, her patience wearing thin. She knows all of this, knows that Loki's good intentions were tainted only by his diabolical judgement. But nobody seems to understand that making herself vulnerable to Loki's diabolical judgement again, would be just about the most idiotic thing she could do.

"He was so very nearly _good_ when he was with you," Thor says quietly. "My mother..."

Natasha grimaces. She has a feeling she's about to hear about how much Thor's mother loves her little princes, how precious they are to her, and how Loki can do no wrong in her eyes, no matter how many people are dead and buried thanks to him, or how many people have lost control of their own minds because of his magic.

"She liked you," Thor continues. "Had been hoping to meet you, one day. When he was ready."

Natasha blinks.

"What?"

"She sat with Heimdall everyday, questioning him. She wanted to know what you looked like, how you treated him, what you did at SHIELD..."

"Why?"

"Because she wanted to know everything about the woman who had finally brought about a sense of peace in Loki."

Natasha sighs heavily and runs a hand through her hair. "Look, I know you're trying to sort things out for your little brother, I get that. But you can't expect me to put myself at risk again, not like that. And not when he's got such an awful track record when it comes to honesty."

"I believe he has learned his lesson, the hard way."

"Good, so maybe the next girl that comes along won't have to go through what I did," Natasha says firmly. She won't change her mind on this, will not accept that Loki is anything remotely like a victim in this situation. She doesn't consider herself to be a victim either, but she will not relinquish the knowledge that she has been betrayed by him, not because he's feeling a little sad and a little lonely.

Thor looks thoroughly confused, his eyebrows furrowed, eyes slightly narrowed. "What do you mean the _next girl_?"

"I _mean_," Natasha says, slowly, pulling her file back towards her and hoping he'll take note of the massive hint. "That he'll get over this soon enough when he finds another girl to play around with."

Thor's eyebrows contort into a full frown now. "I think you misunderstand my brother."

"Yeah," Natasha chuckles. "Poor, misunderstood Loki. He didn't mean to control my emotions, it was all just a big misunderstanding..."

"No, I understand why you are unwilling to forgive him his poor decisions. But your belief that there will be a _next girl_." Thor shakes his head. "Have you any idea how meaningful it is? That he actually found a woman whom he considers his equal?"

"Really? Because I thought I wasn't _quite as good_ as the whores on Asgard..." Natasha says sarcastically, flipping through her file to find her previous place.

"Words," Thor says. "What are words? They are nothing. When he had been denied his speech, that is when you came to understand the real Loki. He has always hidden behind his words, layers upon layers of words and lies and defence. But his silence laid him bare, to you. And only you."

"I admit I preferred it when he _couldn't _talk. But it doesn't change anything. And I think we're done."

"Natasha," Thor says, leaning forward, his hands on her desk. "It is my firm belief that Loki lo-"

"_Don't_."

Thor straightens, and then stands, his disappointment in her written all over his face. Natasha couldn't care less. She's actually getting tired of having to tell people that she values the knowledge that her mind is her own, over a fragile relationship with an unstable god with severe daddy issues. And yet, no matter how many times she says it, nobody seems to be getting it.

She won't deny that she's disappointed that it's come to this, won't pretend for a second that had he made the right choice in the interrogation room, had he not picked an easy way out, that they would most likely still be together. But the situation is what it is, and no amount of persuasion from Thor, or anyone else, is going to convince her otherwise.

"Then this is farewell, Natasha," Thor says, towering over her.

"Yeah," Natasha says offhandedly. "See you."

It is a few seconds before Thor takes his first step towards the door, but after the sounds of his heavy footfalls and the clink of his armour has disappeared from earshot, Natasha drains the last of her coffee and slides down in her seat, scowling at the doorway.

She loses track of the time, until Clint pokes his head around the door, then recoils at the sight of her expression.

"Bad time?"

Natasha raises an eyebrow.

"I was thinking we could get lunch."

Natasha nods. "Good idea."

* * *

She stares at the clouds gathering in the sky above, the dark tones promising a downpour. She turns to look at Clint, who has been quiet for the most part, eating his sandwich and watching as the tourists head for the exits, not wanting to be caught in the bad weather. She can see the vast, imposing façade of the Metropolitan beyond the trees, the stars and stripes on the flag pole at the front of the plaza fluttering in the breeze.

"Tony was a little worried," Clint tells her, screwing up his sandwich wrapper and tossing it into the nearest bin. "Thought he might have overstepped the line."

Natasha shakes her head. Tony is perhaps the easiest person to deal with out of the lot of them. Tony's hasn't changed. Tony doesn't ask her how she's doing in that voice that expects something a lot more woeful and tragic than the word 'fine'. Tony, in Natasha's eyes, is the only thing that's still normal about this fucked up situation. The others, with the best intentions (because everybody has those) are far too concerned about her, and their concern only serves to remind Natasha that things aren't okay, not in the slightest. No matter how many files Fury dumps on her desk, Natasha's concentration isn't good enough to stay buried in them constantly for eight hours a day. At some point, her brain will refuse to read another word, and she'll end up going to make a coffee, and inevitably, she'll end up thinking of _him_. She can't help it, and she hates herself for it. What she hates even more is when she's at home, on her own, and a minuscule part of her wishes that she had some company. She's always been fine on her own, but ever since 'the mess' she's found out that sometimes, life can be a little more enjoyable when there are two of you. Despite everything he's done, despite his faults and his ridiculously skewed sense of right and wrong, despite his emotional fragility and his need to be adored, she can't help but miss him. Sometimes.

She manages to convince herself that it's okay, because she misses the silent him, the him who couldn't tell lies because he couldn't utter a sound, the him who she didn't have to worry about using his powers on her because he didn't _have_ any. It's sad, but she misses the exiled Loki. She turns her coffee cup in her hands, her mind whirring. She's so lost in her own thoughts that it takes her a while to realise that Clint's staring at her, waiting for a response to a question she hasn't heard.

"Sorry, what?"

"Shall we head back? Rain's starting."

"Yeah," Natasha says, feeling a few spots land on the back of her jacket. There is a flash in the distance, and after a few seconds, a rumble of thunder rolls through the park. Clint raises an eyebrow.

"Thor?"

Natasha shrugs. "Maybe." She glances up at the sky, wondering if he's up there, having the most ridiculously dramatic tantrum because she refused to listen to him. She likes to think not, likes to think that he's not that childish. She turns to look at Clint, who's heading north along the path.

"Where are you going?" she asks.

"Back," he replies, twisting around, continuing to walk backwards, his hands in his pockets.

"But this way's quicker," Natasha says. "Straight onto fifth, past the Met -"

"This way's nicer though," Clint replies hurriedly. "More...scenic."

Natasha narrows her eyes. "We can do scenic when we're not about to get soaked. Come _on_."

Clint hesitates, then heads back towards her, walking past her in the direction of the exit onto Fifth Avenue. Natasha follows, ditching her empty coffee cup into a bin, and walks quickly, her arms folded over her jacket, her head bowed as the winds start to pick up. There is another flash of lightening, but this time, the thunder follows immediately. As they exit onto Fifth Avenue, people rush past them with newspapers held over their heads, barely an umbrella in sight. Evidently the rain wasn't expected by anybody. Up ahead, she can see the crowds standing outside the Met, tightly knit, and the next flash of lightening seems to be the final straw, for the clouds burst open, the rain hammering down hard. Natasha's hair is soaked in seconds, clinging to her face and neck. She tries to pull the collar of her jacket up to protect herself a little, but the wind just blows it back down again.

People are huddling in recesses and under awnings, but Natasha and Clint just speed up. A good number of those on the plaza outside the Met rush inside, desperately seeking cover. Natasha considers it, just for a moment, just for a little respite, but then she feels something in her hand. She looks down and sees a black umbrella, neatly wrapped up and secured with a popper, with a curved, gleaming black handle.

Natasha spins around, while her numb fingers tug at the tie. In the distance she can see the back of a familiar leather jacket, securing a huge golf umbrella to an easel, then handing another, smaller umbrella to the couple sitting on a pair of stools. Clint turns to look in the same direction, and at that moment, Loki turns, his skin pale in the cold, his dark hair sticking to his forehead. He sits back down on his chair, picks up his palette and continues painting.

Natasha turns away, erecting the umbrella and holding it high so that Clint can duck his head under it too. His pace is slower now, and Natasha falls into step with him, her heart beating fast in her chest.

"You wanna go talk to him?"

"Nope."

Clint stays silent for the rest of the journey, and Natasha really wishes he wouldn't. Right now, she could definitely do with a distraction.

* * *

Saturday dawns bright and clear. When Natasha opens the curtains, still bleary eyed and half asleep, she is greeted with a cloudless sky. She has a leisurely breakfast with the TV providing some much needed background noise, and after she's spent too long on the sofa in her pyjamas, she eventually gets up and goes to get dressed.

She decides to take a walk, in the hope that it will clear her head and help her think things through properly, without the near constant presence of her friends to distract her. She wanders the streets, sometimes pausing in front of window displays before moving on, refusing to let window shopping turn into _actual_ shopping.

She ends up in Central Park, and takes a seat by the reservoir, staring across the water and trying to tie up all the loose ends of her situation. The umbrella had shaken her, just a little. She had no idea he'd set up a new art stand in New York, had no idea he was still painting for money. She'd just assumed that he'd done it to ease boredom, when he'd been waiting for her in her apartment. She hadn't realised he'd moved his entire business to the Met. Briefly, she wonders what the visitors to the D'Orsay must have thought, when they turned up hoping to get their portrait painted and, without explanation, he was no longer there.

He could be on Asgard, right now. If he wanted. It sounds as though it's all happy families up there for him at the moment, and yet he's down here, wearing the same beaten up trainers that she's so used to seeing him in now, and the same faded t shirts and that damn leather jacket that she thinks might need to be surgically removed from him. He could be taking his place as a prince, at his brother's side. And yet here he is, blending in on the planet he once tried to take over.

She wrinkles her nose as one of the horse drawn carriages trundles past, and decides to make a move. She meanders towards the gates, hands in her pockets. When she exits onto the street, she is surrounded by tourists and shoppers, and even with her particular skills, it would take far too much effort (and attract far too much attention) for her to make her way through the crowd any faster, so she settles for the snail pace and tries not to let it fray her patience too much.

The slowness allows her to think, and she comes to a decision in the end. Loki is volatile, untrustworthy, despite what he might believe. He's got serious issues that need addressing, and a caffeine addiction that's catching up with Natasha's. She can't put herself through the same shit she went through because of him again. It's not fair to herself, and it's not fair to her friends, who will be the ones to pick up the pieces when he eventually turns and blows up a town out of anger or frustration.

And on top of that, he's from another _world_. He's basically an alien. He might like to dress it up as being a god, but he's an alien when all is said and done. Humanoid, yes. But still alien. And that's kind of fucked up. At least to her it is.

She's told herself a million and one times that being with him is about the worst thing she could do. The most _idiotic_ thing she could do. She knows it, he knows it, _everybody _knows it.

And yet she finds herself taking a seat on a little stool outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He glances at her from behind his canvas, while she peruses the laminated postcards that were laying on the spare stool when she sat down. There is a clatter and Natasha looks at the floor to see a wooden palette, lying face down on a paving slab.

Loki isn't concentrating on the palette however. He's watching Natasha, his mouth ajar, completely speechless. Natasha manages a small smile, then chooses Renoir's _Les Parapluies _and hands Loki the postcard.

He looks down at it, his lips twisting into a smirk.

"What?" Natasha asks innocently.

Loki shakes his head and leans down to peel his palette off the floor. "Nothing," he says, "Nothing at all."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **So I'm away as of this afternoon. And laptopless. So no updates this weekend. But I will be on the train for three hours this afternoon so maybe I'll get ahead on things a little. Anyway, hope you like this chapter, because I'm heinously late for work as a result of stubbornly finishing it before I leave for London this afternoon. Let me know what you think!

* * *

**Golden**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

It feels as though she's melted from one place to the next. Natasha's insides are swimming, and she feels a little dizzy. She stumbles, her arm still hooked through Loki's, but he holds her steady, apparently more used to the effects of his magic. Once her body has settled she opens her eyes and finds she's in a familiar street, in front of a familiar building with wide stone steps leading up to a large wooden door.

Loki leads her up to the door, fishing his keys out of the inside pocket of his leather jacket. He unlocks the door and pushes it open, stepping aside for Natasha to go in ahead of him. They climb the staircase until they reach the second floor, and Loki opens the door, the pair of them heading inside.

"You still have this place?"

"Yeah," he says, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the back of a dining chair. "I still pay the rent on it."

"I had no idea," Natasha replies, closing the door to the apartment behind her. It's just the same as she remembers - tatty sofa, low wooden coffee table, powder blue kitchen cabinets just visible through the doorway. Her mind is flooded with memories, some good, some not so much. A lot not so much, actually. She hopes they can redress the balance. She leans back against the door, watching as Loki rifles through his post, frowning, then dumps the lot into the bin. He looks up to see Natasha's quizzical expression.

"They're trying to sell me baths that you walk into. I don't need one of those."

Natasha smiles. "No, I don't suppose you do."

"Doesn't the water gush out when you open it?"

"I _think_ you get in and _then_ fill it up," Natasha tells him. Loki scowls in disgust and shakes his head, muttering something about 'mortals'. But then he stops, runs a hand through his hair and lets it come to rest on the back of his neck. He looks down at the floorboards, his lower lip contorting as he bites the inside of it. He glances at Natasha quickly then back to the floorboards again, before taking a deep breath, his hand dropping from his neck.

"I've been thinking," he says slowly. He starts to walk towards her, his eyebrows furrowed, his hands fidgety.

"What?" Natasha asks, her skin tingling with nerves. He looks more serious than she's ever seen him, and it's such an unusual sight, that she doesn't know what to make of it. Is his seriousness a mark of a newfound and long overdue maturity? Or is it supposed to set alarm bells ringing? Is it a sign that she should get the hell out of this apartment, and out of Paris before his seriousness turns into something she can't handle?

"I've been thinking about your trust. And how things would be easier if you knew, for certain, that you could trust me."

"Loki..."

"Let me finish, _please_." He starts to pace around the room, taking deep, shaky breaths, staring up at the once-white ceiling, his hands clasped behind his back. "Understandably, you are wary of me, and what I can do. But...we never had this problem before I had my powers."

"We never had this problem before you _used_ your powers on _me_."

Loki pauses, exhales, and then turns to face her. "What if -" he stops, looks down at his feet, then after moment, returns his gaze to Natasha. "What if I didn't have them?"

Natasha doesn't know what to say. Had it not been so difficult for him to get the words out, she would have assumed he was joking. But there he stands, his green eyes boring into her own, looking a little lost, and a little forlorn.

"It would remove the root cause of your fear completely, and you wouldn't have to worry. Things could go back to how they were." His eyes are bright, and Natasha can tell he's been thinking this over for a long long time. It's the last straw he can grasp at to try and get her to stay, but what he doesn't realise is that she's here, in Paris, with him. That's a pretty big step considering the previous day she didn't want to see him ever again.

"But -"

"I've spoken to my father," he says, before Natasha can get a word in. He's pacing again, nervous, because this will change him forever. He will effectively be exiling himself from Asgard, after all the progress he's made, after his family have welcomed him home like the prodigal son. "He has agreed, providing it's what I really want."

"And what do you really want?" Natasha asks, pushing herself away from the door and walking towards him. "Because I know it's not this."

"I'd rather have my defences, yes. But if it's a case of me choosing my magic or choosing you, then it's you. Always."

Natasha looks away, his gaze too intense for her to bear.

"You'd be mortal then? You'd give up your powers and become mortal if it meant we could be together?" She wants to make sure she's gotten this right, that she hasn't misinterpreted or misheard anything he's said. She wants to be sure of the offer that he's laying on the table. She can hardly believe it, that he would go to such lengths just to gain her trust again, just to have things go back to how they were. And maybe, maybe this is why he's set up the art stand in New York. Maybe he's been trying to prepare himself for a mortal life. Maybe this is why he still keeps up with the rent on his Parisian apartment.

"Yes."

There's no hesitancy now, no deep breaths, no steeling himself for unpleasantness. A single, honest, three letter answer. Natasha breathes in deeply, trying to process the information, the possibilities, all the what ifs and the what could bes.

"No," she says softly. "I can't let you do that."

"What? But I thought that if -"

"The _root cause_ of my fear is that you thought it would be okay to do what you did. You'd be removing the temptation from your path, you wouldn't be solving the problem. And you...you'd go back to being unhappy." She's not sure which matters more to her - the fact that it wouldn't really make things right, that he won't have actually _earned_ her trust, or the fact that when she first met him in Paris, he was distraught. She doesn't want to see him like that again. And cutting him off from his home world is never going to be the best thing for him, no matter what he might think.

"No I wouldn't, I'd be with you."

Natasha shakes her head. "It's not the answer."

"Then what is?" he snaps. "You don't trust me enough to be around me for any length of time, so how can I ever prove to you that I -"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Loki's rant peters out before it gains too much momentum, his hands falling to his sides. Silence reigns between them, and Natasha takes a few slow steps closer to him, his eyes tracking her every movement. She doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what to do. She's got no idea why she thought it would be a good idea to simply drop everything and go to Paris with him. And nobody even knows she's here.

That doesn't thrill her as much as it once did. The secrecy is no longer exciting, but something to be wary of. She removes her phone from her pocket, making good on her word to Fury and typing out a quick text.

_In Paris with Loki. Be back on Monday._

She's not planning on an extended visit, she hasn't even brought anything with her. It had just been an idea of Loki's, that she take his hand and let him show her the better parts of his magic. Perhaps it had been one last hurrah for him, before he offered up the option of turning his powers over, giving them up for a mortal life with her.

He reaches out a hand, the backs of his fingers brushing softly against her jaw, and Natasha closes her eyes, inhaling deeply. She senses him move closer, and when she opens her eyes, he is right before her, so close that she can see the fine weave of the fabric of his shirt. She lifts her head, her eyes meeting his, and he places a gentle, uncertain hand on her hip, his thumb grazing gently over the bone.

Natasha's heart rate increases, and everything else seems as though it's been drowned out, almost like she's jumped into a swimming pool, and the world is distant and muffled and a place for _other people_. Loki lowers his head, and presses his lips softly against Natasha's, sending a jolt of desire through her. Her last coherent thought, before her brain gives up entirely, is that she is, and always has been, completely and utterly doomed.

* * *

There is a spring digging into her ribcage. And another digging into her hip. And another digging into her knee. Natasha huffs and rolls over, resting her head on Loki's chest, which rises and falls softly, and steadily. If he's awake, then he's very good at hiding it, as she'd expect from him. When his hand comes to rest on the small of her back, his fingertips tracing circles on her skin, Natasha smiles into his chest, her eyes closing softly, her body slowly relaxing despite the ridiculously uncomfortable mattress.

"Can we buy a bed?" she murmurs. "Or stay at my place next time?"

"Whatever you wish," Loki mumbles sleepily.

Natasha smiles against his skin, and despite the discomfort of the mattress, she can't remember ever having felt this relaxed before. She considers how different her life will be, if this thing actually works out. She tries not to let her imagination run too wild, only to set her up for a greater fall, but the idea of not waking up alone everyday for the rest of her life is somewhat appealing. She's not big on contact, but with Loki, she's found that she makes exceptions. Never will she be the woman that drapes herself over her other half at any given opportunity, but this, this tranquil state of being, this slow and sleepy introduction to a new day, this she can enjoy.

"Do you have to work today?"

"No. Why?"

"Just wanted to know."

Natasha doesn't say anything response. She wonders if her job is a bigger competitor for her time in his head than it is in reality, or maybe he's unused to the idea that ninety-nine percent of what SHIELD does has nothing to do with saving the world from alien species led by a deranged god. She won't mention that one though. Sometimes it's best to leave the past where it is.

"So are you going to stay then?" he asks carefully.

"Not if you don't want me to," Natasha replies, pushing herself up onto her elbows so she can look at him. He's got one arm tucked behind his head, while the other is looped around her, his fingers still softly stroking the skin of her back.

"Of course I want you to," he says quietly. "I just..."

"What?"

"I'm just not used to people staying around me longer than they have to."

Natasha frowns. She tries not to feel sorry for him. Her general rule is not to pity him. Nobody in the world ever coasts through life smoothly, everybody gets dealt a crappy hand at some point, some more than others. But not everybody allows those crappy hands to rule their lives. She certainly hopes her own crappy hand has little to no effect on the way she lives these days. Regardless, she can't ignore the pang in her chest when he tells her that after however many hundreds of years he's been alive, he's never had anybody stick with him. Apart from Thor, of course, but Loki's always had a blind spot when it comes to his brother.

"And you think I spent that entire weekend with you before things went..._wrong_, because I _had to_?"

"Well you had to make sure I wasn't going to destroy the planet, didn't you?" It's half joke, half not, but both halves are rendered completely irrelevant by the fact that he genuinely believes that that was the reason she was there, to check up on him, like he's a school kid in detention.

Natasha shakes her head. "I knew you weren't going to do that. I _wanted_ to spend time with you."

This throws him, his dark eyebrows drawing together, his fingers stilling on her back. His green eyes are completely puzzled, and he looks at Natasha in a way that makes her feel like he doesn't believe her in the slightest, as though she is just another in a long line of people who claim to care for him but end up lying to him. What he fails to realise is that all the people who 'claim' to care for him actually _do_, and he's just too obsessed with the tragedy of his life to see that. But that's something they can talk about at a later date. Tiny steps in the right direction will have to do for now. If they try and move forward in leaps and bounds, they're just going to fall flat on their faces.

"I'm not here because you need keeping in check," she tells him. "I'm here because..." she considers her words very carefully at this point. Why is she here? Why, when he's already betrayed her in the worst way possible, has she ended up lying next to him on this stupid mattress?

"Because?" he prompts, sitting up slightly and turning his body towards hers.

"Because I want to be happy," she says softly. "And I was happiest with you. Here."

Loki doesn't say anything. The next thing Natasha knows, his lips are on hers. His kiss is gentle at first, but when she reciprocates, he deepens the kiss, pulling her flush against his body. For a man who's so good with words, so good at talking, he seems to lose his ability to formulate meaningful sentences fairly often. Perhaps it's because he's so used to dealing with lies and deception, and he finds that truth is beyond him. But actions have always spoken louder than words, and Natasha doesn't mind, because some things are best left unsaid.

* * *

It's a while before they manage to find a clear spot large enough for them to lay out the blanket. The base of the Eiffel Tower is rammed with tourists, and when the pair of them settle down, Natasha is struck with a distinct sense of deja vu. She scans the crowd, searching for anything out of the ordinary, but then realises that she doesn't have to. She doesn't have to do anything. This is not business, this is pleasure.

She's not entirely used to it.

"I never used to like it," Loki says, reclining on his elbows and looking around. "Thought it was ugly, all that metal."

"Change your mind?"

"Yes."

"How come?"

Loki doesn't answer and Natasha twists onto her side to look at him, resting her face against the heel of her palm. She watches as he stares out into the masses, his eyes following different figures for only a few seconds before moving on to the next. He opens his mouth, as though to say something, but then the words don't come and he gives in. Natasha doesn't push him, is content for him to say what he wants to say when he's ready, and not a second before. They lapse into silence for a short while, but eventually Loki breaks it with two words.

"Ice cream?"

"Sounds good," Natasha says with a smile.

Loki stands, and within seconds he's disappeared through the crowds. She tries to track his route to the ice cream stand, and occasionally catches sight of his dark hair, just visible above the heads of everybody else. A few minutes later she spots him shuffling forward in the queue, a scowl on his face as he looks around. She chuckles to herself, and wonders if he's ever had to queue for anything before. She can't imagine princes ever have to wait in Asgard.

But while her mind is caught up in her musings, she doesn't register the sudden, intense heat. Nor does she register the boom. She does, however, register the strange feeling of being forced through the air and the screech of splintering iron.

After that, she doesn't register much at all.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **Hiiiii guyyyys. I'm away again this weekend until the middle of next week, so again, don't expect any chapters in the next ten or so days. I'll be taking my notebook with me though, so lots of departure lounge/train scribbling for you to look forward to, eventually. Thank you for your reviews, it's now time for me to sleep. Awwww yeah.

* * *

**Golden**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

As the _beep, beep, beep _of a monitor fades into her consciousness, Natasha vaguely acknowledges that things aren't as good as they could be. The room is dark and cool, no strip lighting glaring from the other side of her eyelids. Her body aches, her ribs particularly so. The skin on her left shoulder feels tight and raw, the dressing doing little to alleviate the familiar searing pain of a severe burn.

The beeping of the monitor is incessant, loud, and with each sharp pip, she feels as though she is being cracked on the skull with a toffee hammer. She feels around for the clamp on the end of her index finger and yanks it off. As the room is doused in silence, she lets out a soft sigh, relishing in the peace.

Unfortunately, her peace lasts all of fifteen seconds. The door bursts open and Natasha's eyelids snap up. She jerks upright into a sitting position to see a doctor and a couple of nurses rush in, panic stricken until they realise that Natasha hasn't actually suffered from a completely unprecedented cardiac arrest.

She lays back down, wincing when her shoulder makes contact with the mattress. Within moments, the doctor and the nurses are crowded around her, giving her a thorough checking over. It's not until she hears a familiar heavy gait that Natasha starts paying attention.

"Out."

"Sir, with all respect we need to run tests, give her a full medical examination -"

"Out."

"But sir, she's my patient and -"

"She's fine."

"But -"

"Is she dead?"

Silence. Natasha's mouth curves into a smirk.

"No sir."

Natasha can hear the defeat in his voice, and almost feels sorry for him. He should count himself lucky however; not many people argue with Nick Fury and live to tell the tale.

"Then she's fine," Fury says with dwindling patience. "Now if you could remove yourself from the room, Agent Romanov and I have urgent matters to discuss."

There is a shuffling of feet, and then the clunk of the door closing and the magnetic locks coming into effect. Natasha opens her eyes and feels around at the side of the bed for the remote, soon finding it clipped to the frame. She presses a couple of buttons and is slowly raised to a sitting position. Fury waits patiently, his hands clasped behind his back, a grim expression on his face. Natasha's stomach drops at the sight of it, and the question that she should have asked as soon as she awoke springs from her lips.

"Where's Loki?"

"He's fine," Fury assures her. It has little effect however, as Loki's absence from her bedside leaves her feeling anxious.

"Not dead fine?" she asks. "Or _fine _fine?"

"_Fine _fine."

"Where is he?"

"Working," Fury tells her, "For me."

Natasha blinks, considers that she might have suffered a severe head injury on top of her other ailments, and that this a hallucination, then says, "I'm sorry?"

"I know," Fury says heavily, pacing to the chair by the side of her bed and sitting down, his hands resting on his knees. He looks weary, old even.

"What happened?" Natasha asks gently.

"We fucked up is what happened," Fury answers bluntly. "_I _fucked up."

Natasha stays silent. She doesn't know what to make of that. She dreads to think of the world that lays beyond her window if this is Fury's attitude. He's more desperate than ever. He's asked _Loki _for help, and more worrying than that is the fact that Loki has agreed. What possible enemy could have surfaced that's so terrible and so abhorrent, that Loki is now siding with Nick Fury?

"He pulled you out of the wreckage and brought you straight here," Fury tells her. "First we knew of anything was when Thor blasted in with some magic rocks for you. Beat Loki by seconds. Saved your life."

"Magic rocks?" Natasha raises an eyebrow.

"Don't complain. Loki did some hocus pocus on you too, repaired that burn on your shoulder."

"Repaired?" Natasha says incredulously. "You call this _repaired_?"

"You didn't see it when you first came in. _That,_" he says, jabbing a finger in the direction of Natasha's shoulder, "is a god damned miracle."

Natasha sighs and leans her head back against the pillows. "So where's Loki?"

"Somewhere in Europe, tracking those responsible. I managed to convince him to channel his anger into positive actions."

"What kind of positive actions?"

"The kind that involve finding the assholes who did this and making them pay. The French authorities are in uproar over it. Seventy two dead, hundreds injured, Eiffel Tower destroyed."

"Destroyed?"

"It's a pile of shrapnel. There were dozens buried in it. You included."

Natasha lets the news link in. Seventy two people, wiped out in a blast they didn't even know was coming. The Eiffel Tower, that iconic structure torn apart in a few disastrous moments.

"The lab break ins," Natasha murmurs.

"Yep," Fury replies, staring into space. "See, they had a print shop, and the print shop was a front for the drugs, and the drugs were a front for the bomb making."

"Didn't Interpol -?"

"What do Interpol care about a couple of drug barons when they've got terrorists on their most wanted list? They're not a priority. Except we didn't investigate enough. We just palmed it off and..." Fury sighs, resting his head in his hands.

Natasha tries to process the information, tries to imagine a barren patch of grass where the Eiffel Tower ought to be, but she can't. It's like her brain has fallen apart inside her head, and none of the usual connections are working properly.

"I wanna help Loki," she says firmly.

"Loki's got plenty of help."

"Like who?"

"Like the rest of the Avengers," Fury tells her. "You need to rest."

"But which of them will be able to talk him out of making a dumbass decision? Because he _will. _If he's angry, he _will_."

Fury purses his lips, and Natasha knows that he knows she's right.

"He had him. He had one of the guys," Fury tells her, his eyes fixed on the far wall. "He saw him and he realised, half a second before what was going to happen. But he _had him_."

"Well where is he?" Natasha asks. "What did you do with him?"

"Loki let him go," Fury sighs.

"_What_?"

"Loki let him go because you were trapped under a ton of metal and fire and he didn't give a damn about bringing him in because he had to save you."

"Fuck." She doesn't know how to respond in any other way. Loki had a terrorist in his hands, had him under his control, and then let him loose on the world all because she'd been sitting in the wrong place at the wrong time. But then, she supposes, had things been the other way round, had _she _been the one to go and get ice creams, then she would have done the same thing. She's not a soldier, she doesn't work for the greater good, and she wouldn't have been prepared to lose Loki for the sake of 'justice'. He, like her, will always bargain for one life while the world burns. She supposes their priorities are something they have in common.

"It's a good job he _did_ let him go."

Natasha looks up at Fury, who's watching her now, his dark eye boring in to her own.

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Fury says. "If he'd come back here with a murderer instead of you, I wouldn't think that was a fair trade. I'd have kicked his ass all the way back to Asgard."

Natasha smiles half-heartedly, glad that for once, Loki has done the right thing and that it's been acknowledged as the right thing, even if it does mean that the Avengers are now hunting down a terrorist group...without her.

"So where exactly are the others?" she asks. She crosses her legs under the blanket and rests her hands in her lap, trying to fake casualness. It doesn't get past Fury however.

"You can't go," he says. "I know he made the right choice in Paris, but I can't have him choosing you over the lives of civilians, I just can't. We need him focused, and he stays focused if he knows that you're safe."

"Fine," Natasha says placidly. "I guess I am in pretty bad shape so maybe it's best I sit this one out."

Fury considers her for a moment, his x-ray stare digging through her, trying to unearth something else. Eventually he skews his lips and looks away. Natasha breathes a small sigh of relief, the movement causing her to his in pain as a sharp pang surges through her ribcage.

"You want the doctor?"

Natasha shakes her head. "Can you hold 'em off for a while? Not looking forward to the full medical."

Fury nods in understanding. "I'll tell them to give you a couple of hours," he says. "I won't be able to get any more than that. He's a little concerned about the effects of Asgardian healthcare."

"Magic rocks not cutting it for him?"

Fury manages to break into a ghost of a smile. "I guess not." He heads towards the door, and a dozen questions get stuck in Natasha's throat. The only one that manages to get out sounds incredibly childish when she hears it out loud.

"D'you think he'll find them?"

"Do I think the guy that destroyed an entire town because he argued with his big brother will find the people responsible for nearly killing the one good thing he's got?" Fury asks, eyebrow quirked.

"When you put it like that..." Natashaa says.

"Exactly. Only trouble is that when he takes them down, he might just take down a couple of countries with them."

Natasha bites her lip. She wonders whether the idea of keeping collateral damage to a minimum will even occur to Loki.

"Get some rest," Fury says. It's an order, and he's almost back to his old self, but then his face softens as he reaches for the door, and he pauses, his fingers curled around the handle. "He'll be fine. They all will."

"Yeah," Natasha replies. "Yeah I know."

Fury nods, his face resuming its usual emotionless expression, and leaves the room, closing the door behind him. Natasha stays stock still for a few minutes, trying to pick out any sound from beyond the door. The place is soundproofed, to ensure the patients stay restful and any secrets remain secret. If she can, she'll try to detect a small disturbance, a vibration, anything that might suggest that she's not alone, but there's nothing.

Her clothes are sitting atop a dresser by the window, although, she notes, they're not the ones she'd been wearing, which are probably ruined by now. Natasha pulls the drip out of the back of her hand and presses down the surgical tape before she starts bleeding over things. She swings her legs out of the side of the bed, then gingerly puts her weight on them. She hobbles over to the dresser, her spine aching from being in the same position for days. She stretches, and a few of her vertebrae shift into more comfortable positions. Feeling a little more like herself, she tugs off her hospital gown and quickly pulls her own clothes on. She catches sight of herself in the mirror and grimaces at her reflection; there are small collections of stitches dotted around - a couple on her brow, a few more on her jaw and two small ones on the bottom of her chin. There's also some raw shiny skin on the side of her neck, and she touches it gently with the tip of her index finger, gritting her teeth when it smarts sharply.

She turns away from the mirror, having seen enough, and pulls the cord of the blind, which then raises with a rapid succession of clicks. The sunlight dazzles her, and she squeezes her eyes shut until they are at least semi-prepared for the outside world. When she opens them, the skyline slides into focus. She looks down at the street below and sighs. She's at least seventy feet above the ground. She leans close to the window and tries to find a fire escape, but there's nothing on her side of the building.

There is a small window above the main pane of glass, but there's no way Natasha would fit through it. She turns around, resolving to find another way out, but then her eyes land on the chair by her bed, and she feels a sinking sensation as she realises what she's actually about to do.

She hates broken glass. It's never fully gone, and even the smallest cuts can hurt like hell. She sighs and goes to collect the chair, resigning herself to her fate.

* * *

Natasha walks quickly, her head down, hood pulled up to cover her hair. She knows she doesn't have long before somebody notices the huge gaping hole in the window of her ward, or the missing weaponry from the fifth floor, and is sure that as soon as Fury finds out, he'll put a block on all of her passports. She vaguely wonders if she'll have time to make it to the border, but when she sees an NYPD officer watching her from behind his aviators, she ducks into a throng of tourists and allows herself to be carried along, towards Broadway.

She tries to consider her options. She has no idea where Loki and the others are, not really, and she knows that the second she makes a call on her phone she'll be traced, so getting in contact with them is out of the question.

She can't work out if she's just being paranoid about people staring at her, or whether they actually _are_ staring at her. And if they _are _staring at her, is it because they've seen her face, has Fury sent out a news release filled with lies to ensure her capture? Or are they just staring because she's the only person in the city who's got their hood up on a sunny day? Either way, it's not great, but the alternative of lowering her hood is no better.

She runs through her choices again, but draws a blank. There's no way in hell she's going back to HQ, that much she knows. Other than that however, she's got no clue. She knows that Fury will do everything in his power to keep her away from the others, but she knows that they need her, knows that the only sure fire way to ensure Loki doesn't take down a city is for her to be there, to pull him back when he's done enough. He needs her for that, and she won't let him down. Not when he waded into burning wreckage to pull her out with no thought for his own safety.

The thought of it sends an odd feeling through her, her skin prickling with discomfort. She doesn't like being indebted to anyone, and certainly doesn't like being in the position where she owes them her life. But this is different, the discomfort of the prickle is the weird kind, the kind that she's sure any _normal_ human being would like. To her, however, it is the confirmation that she has been completely and utterly betrayed by her head, which has finally bowed down before her heart and allowed it to take the lead.

Her phone vibrates in her pocket, and Natasha pulls it out. One glance at the screen and she knows that at last, Fury has been alerted to her absence. She waits for it to ring off and go to voice mail, but seconds later, it's ringing again. She looks around, chewing on her lower lip, searching for inspiration. She needs to find somebody that's going far and going fast.

And then she sees a guy in an expensive cabriolet, tapping his fingers impatiently on his steering wheel as he waits at a set of lights. She smirks, crosses the road, weaving between the cars, and casually drops her phone into the back seat of his car. When she reaches the opposite pavement, the lights turn to green, and he speeds off down the street, unaware of his new miniature cargo.

She needs to make a decision, and fast. It would be so easy if she had super powers, or a suit with rockets on, or a magic hammer, or any sort of magic. It would all be so _so _easy. It's this realisation, that there's nothing extraordinary about her except the number of people she's sent to an early grave, that makes her hesitate. Should she really be going to join them? Would she, with her fragile human form be of any real use to them? Or would she just be baggage? Fury might be right, Loki might sacrifice the greater good if she gets into a tight spot, and she can't be responsible for another incident like in Paris. She's got enough red in her ledger already.

But then, she supposes, she helped defeat the Chitauri. She's not _just_ another human. She has a skillset, and a rare one too, and she _can_ put it to good use. She knows how to be stealthy better than anyone, perhaps with the exception of Loki, but she's proved that she can even creep up on him unnoticed.

She's not useless, she knows that. Not having magic powers doesn't make her any less useful. She tries to hammer the idea into her brain, but suddenly, she's distracted by an idea.

She doesn't _need_ magic powers in order to benefit from them. She just needs to ask the right person for the right favour at the right time. Loki's told her all she really needs to knows.

"Heimdall," she says clearly, glancing around and hoping that nobody notices her talking to thin air. "Could you -?" she doesn't know what to say. How does she phrase it? She can't order him to, but she needs to get the urgency across to him. "Could you -?" She doesn't need to worry about the rest of the sentence, for the sky above starts to swirl, and she knows he has heard.

"Yeah," she says. "That. Thanks."

She's surrounded by light, and before she has time to prepare herself for the journey, her feet leave solid ground, and she's away.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: **So no sooner am I back in my own house do I get called back to London again. But plenty of train writing awaits. Hope this chapter will tide you over until whenever I'm back in my house for more than five seconds again. Let me know what you think!

* * *

**Golden**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

Natasha hits solid ground, hard. She groans and pushes herself up, getting unsteadily to her feet while her shoulder throbs. She's in some kind of vast golden dome with a central dais, the hilt of a large sword sticking out of the top. A huge hand reaches out to take the sword, listing the blade easily out of its slot.

Natasha turns to see an enormous man, easily a foot taller than her, his biceps bulging under smooth, dark skin. He's wearing a heavy looking golden helmet, though in the small square of his face that's unprotected, there are two bright amber eyes, watching her curiously, and perhaps a little cautiously. Loki had told her that Heimdall can see everything, all at once, and she'd taken his tales with a pinch of salt, not believing it were possible. But staring into those eyes, the eyes which seem to be both watching her and not watching her at all...well now she's more inclined to believe it.

"Heimdall?" she asks.

"Lady Natasha," he responds, bowing his head in greeting, his hands resting atop the hilt of his sword. He has a deep, calm voice and speaks slowly, steadily.

"Could you use your, uh," she points vaguely at the dais, the correct word just out of reach in her mind, and any alternatives sounding far too much like they've been pulled from a fairytale.

"The bifrost..." Heimdall supplies.

"Yeah," Natasha says, "Could you use the bifrost to send me to Loki?"

"It was Loki's explicit wish that you were kept from harm."

"Yeah?" Natasha says, raising an eyebrow. "Well it's my explicit wish that I go and help the team."

"Loki is fighting the good fight on the condition that you remain safe, _not_ because he has changed his morals."

"So why did you bother bringing me here then? Why not just leave me trapped in New York? I'd never have made it out without help."

"You would have found a way. Not a safe way, but a way," Heimdall tells her, still watching her with those eerie amber eyes.

Natasha is about to argue, about to demand that he either send her to Loki or send her back to New York, but then she hears the clatter of hooves and turns to see where the noise is coming from.

"Heimdall, what news?"

A woman wearing a long flowing gown, her hair intricately braided, enters the dome, her cheeks flushed from her journey. At the sight of Natasha, her mouth opens a little, the most minute gasp escaping her lips. Natasha glances between Heimdall and the woman, trying to put the pieces together. her brain is still cloudy from her injuries, and her bifrost journey has only exacerbated her problems.

"Natasha?" the woman breathes.

"Yes?" Natasha responds coolly.

"I am Frigga, Loki's mother," she says, gathering the skirt of her dress and rushing up the steps towards them. When she reaches them, she casts her eyes over Natasha, her brow creasing in concern. "But you're injured, you should be resting, did Loki bring you here for safekeeping?"

"I'm fine," Natasha says patiently. "I asked Heimdall to send me to Loki but he refused."

"Well naturally, Loki's on a very dangerous mission -"

"I want to help. I can fight," Natasha interrupts. Every second that passes is another second wasted, another second in which Loki might grossly misinterpret what the 'right thing to do' is. She doesn't even know how quickly or slowly time passes on Asgard - is it the same as Earth? Or have hours already passed by since she left SHIELD HQ?

"I know you can fight," Frigga says, placing a placating hand on Natasha's upper arm. "Thor has told me of your strength, your courage."

This revelation throws Natasha. She knew Frigga had been interested in her, but had only thought it had been as far as her relationship with Loki and a few surface details. She hadn't considered that Thor would describe her as strong, and especially not corageous.

"Come," Frigga says. "I'll take you to the healing room and we'll find chambers for you to rest. You can have Loki's chambers if you prefer, or we have plenty of guest rooms." She takes Natasha by the arm and tries to guide her down the steps, but Natasha pulls away.

"I _need_ to go to Loki," she says, "I don't think you understand -"

"Heimdall has sworn to watch over you and ensure your safety at my son's request. He will not break an oath."

"But -"

"Natasha I _know_," Frigga says, her eyes wide and imploring. There is something Loki-ish in her manner, something that reminds Natasha of those few occasions where Loki desperately tried to tell the truth. "I know you fear for him, but Loki is battling _mortals_, and Thor is by his side, _nothing_ will happen to him."

"Really?" Natasha replies sceptically, "Because as far as I'm aware Loki has a habit of doing the exact opposite of what Thor says."

Frigga closes her eyes and sighs. "I know that," she says brokenly. She touches her fingertips to her forehead, as though trying to soothe a migraine. Natasha feels the unpleasant heat of guilt in her stomach. Clearly Frigga blames herself for Loki's fall from grace, though from the little Loki has told Natasha, it sounds as though Frigga was one of the few people that Loki still cared for, even at his lowest point.

"I know Loki can handle himself," Natasha says softly. "But I'm worried that the others can't handle Loki. If this thing escalates, if innocent people get hurt because Loki can't control his temper -"

"Speak with Odin," Frigga says, her eyes snapping open, her hand falling back to her side. "I cannot overrule Loki on this. Only Odin, or Thor."

"I thought Loki was still technically exiled? How can he have more authority than you?"

"The second his powers returned, his exile ended. He stays on Midgard because of you. He has no interest in the throne, or his royal duties. Only you."

This only leaves Natasha feeling worse. Despite her hearing that he had been welcomed back with open arms, she had assumed that things had been so strained between Loki and his family that he had decided lving on another world would be much better than living at home. She hadn't realised all his titles and authority had been reinstated along with his magic. She had just assumed that he'd enjoyed being the big fish in the small pond of mortals.

"Come," Frigga says, guiding Natasha to the exit of the dome. "You can speaks with Odin after you've been to the healing room. Loki wanted to bring you here initially, but you were not well enough to survive the bifrost journey." Frigga raises a finger and thumb to her lips and lets out a short sharp whistle.

Natasha's jaw drops as she steps outside. The rainbow bridge had always seemed like such a /fantastical notion, but it is just as Loki had painted it, every hue imaginable fading seamlessly from one to another. In the distance, Natasha can pick out individual buildings from the memory of Loki's painting. The view is breathtaking, and when she looks down, she can see a choppy ocean stretching out into the darkness and ending up god only knows where.

Her attention is caught by a rumble in the distance and she looks out across the bridge to see a dark horse speeding towards them.

"Can you ride?" Frigga aska.

Natasha smirks as she thinks of Budapest. "Yeah," she says. "I can ride."

* * *

The healing room is a huge, bright white expanse that stretches on for hundreds of yards. Natasha waits patiently for her healer, Kadin, to return with his promised medicines. Frigga has departed in order to update Odin, and suddenly Natasha feels very small, all alone on another world with a healer guesstimating the appropriate dosages for a mortal. The silence is overbearing, but soon she hears footsteps and Kadin returns.

"This won't hurt," he says, scooping a handful of cream out of a porcelain jar and moving the strap of Natasha's vest to full expose her shoulder.

Natasha frowns, and Kadin rubs the cream into her burn. Natasha gasps, her hands gripping a fistful of mattress as her skin hisses and sizzles. She squeezes her eyes tight shut and trusts that the pain will recede eventually. When it does, Kadin wraps a soft bandage around her shoulder, and Natasha opens her eyes.

"Won't hurt?" she croaks.

"I lied. Do they do that on Midgard?"

"Yeah," Natasha replies, "They do that. You guys aren't the only ones."

"Drink this." Kadin presses a goblet into Natasha's hand, a dark shiny liquid swirling around inside.

"What is it?" Natasha asks, peering into the goblet distrustfully.

She doesn't receive a response, for Kadin is frowning, staring over her shoulder. Natasha turns and sees a faint shadow move. Immediately she feels her brain switch into combat mode, as she tries to work out the shadow owner's exact position, height, build, and any potential weak spots.

"Fandral!" Kadin snaps with the air of a strict teacher.

A blond head appears around the corner, and Fandral grins.

"Kadin!" Fandral booms as he steps around the corner, followed by a dark haired woman with an irritated expression on her face. "How are you my old friend?"

"Why are you here?" Kadin demands.

"Do I have to have a reason to come and see my favourite healer?" Fandral asks, peering curiously at Natasha, his eyes quickly flicking back to Kadin.

"Sif?"

"He wants to meet Loki's mortal," she says exasperatedly.

Natasha frowns at her phrasing, the way she makes Natasha sound like Loki's pet, but doesn't say anything.

"I told him it was improper to attend the healing room, but he insisted."

Kadin rolls his eyes and Fandral approaches regardless. He casts his gaze over Natasha's injuries, then takes her hand and kisses it.

"My lady," he says smoothly.

"Yeah..." Natasha says, extracting her hand from his. From the corner of her eye, Natasha sees Sif smirk.

Fandral recovers quickly and puffs his chest out. "But Sif, she is of your ilk! A warrior maiden - she even wears breeches!" He points to Natasha's jeans and she shakes her head, unable to believe that on a world that claims to be so far above her own, in all respects, the sight of a woman in trousers is something worth commenting on.

"Well you didn't think Loki would give himself away for a pretty face, did you?"

Natasha quirks an eyebrow.

"Not that I mean -" Sif says quickly. "Forgive me." She smiles apologetically and Natasha lets her eyebrow slide back into its normal position.

"Don't mind Sif," Fandral says, "She must be feeling a little less special, now she's not the only warrior maiden in the kingdom."

"Time to go," Kadin says sternly. "Lady Natasha must rest."

"Very well," Fandral sighs. "Until next time, fair lady."

Natasha doesn't respond, and Sif grabs Fandral by the shoulder and hauls him towards the exit. Moments after they've disappeared, Frigga rounds the corner, walking quickly towards Natasha and Kadin.

"Odin will speak with you, after you have had your rest," she says.

"But there isn't _time_," Natasha argues. "They've already been gone for _days_."

"It is his final word. Your healing solution will need four hours to take full effect, after which he will see you."

Natasha looks down at the goblet in her hands, then around the room at the bright walls and sighs.

"You can rest in Loki's chambers," Frigga says softly. "Would you like that?"

Natasha nods, and slides off the bed, picking up her jacket with her spare hand, and nodding her thanks to Kadin. She follows Frigga from the healing room, down long corridors, deeper and deeper into the heart of the building. She tries to keep track of the route, lays mental breadcrumbs at various junctions, but after so many twists and turns, and going upstairs and then downstairs several times, she loses track completely.

"This place is a maze," she says.

"Loki likes people to get lost several times before they reach his chambers," Frigga replies. "He's really not that far from the main chambers at all, it's just his trickery." She smiles fondly, but Natasha doesn't find it to be Loki's most endearing trait. But, she supposes, it would take care of unwanted visitors, and that's something she could definitely do with.

"He's always liked being alone then?"

Frigga purses her lips. "When he was younger he would traipse around after Thor, but as he grew, and as Thor became...arrogant, he preferred his own space. Thor never had the patience to reach his rooms, which suited Loki well."

"I can imagine..." Natasha says quietly.

After three more sets of stairs, a dozen more corners, several of which Natasha is sure she's seen before, they reach an enormous set of wooden doors, arching high above them. Frigga doesn't open them however. Instead, she turns to Natasha.

"Place your palm against the door," she says.

Natasha rearranges her goblet and jacket to free up a hand, and does as she is told. She feels the wood gently vibrate at her touch, and then the doors swing open. Natasha glances at Frigga, who nods encouragingly, then she steps inside.

"If you need anything, ring the bell. I'll come and collect you when Odin is ready."

"Thanks," Natasha says stepping inside, and as she turns around to take one last look at the corridors beyond Loki's room, the doors close with a soft thud, and she is immersed in darkness. After a few moments, the candle brackets on the wall flicker into life, casting the room in a soft golden glow.

It is, like everything else in Asgard, far bigger than necessary. The ceiling is so high above her that Natasha has to squint to make it out, while the marble floors have no tile seams, no mark upon them whatsoever. She wonders if Asgard was built with magic, because she can't get her head around most of it. There is a large fireplace on one side of the room, an elaborately upholstered chaise longue placed in front of it. On the small table at its side, there rests a thick leather-bound book, and Natasha's eyes immediately move to the impressive range of tomes on the shelves either side of the fireplace. She spots the empty slot immediately, and notes that the book is one of the later volumes of a large collection. She wonders just how long he's spent reading them. Months? Years? Centuries?

Deciding that she'd best take her medicine and get her resting sentence over and done with, Natasha downs the contents of the goblet and immediately becomes sleepy. She dumps her jacket on the nearest armchair and stumbles over to the huge four poster bed, pulling back the soft emerald covers and all but falling into the mattress. She kicks off her boots clumsily, and rolls into the most comfortable position she attain without much effort. Before she can register that the smile on her face is due to the familiar smell on the bedclothes, she loses consciousness.

* * *

When she wakes, Natasha has no desire to move. She feels wonderful, calm, and wants to stay wrapped up warm in bed forever. She inhales deeply, and then lets out a happy sigh, but then her mind wanders to Loki and she remembers why she's here.

She sits bolt upright and looks around. Frigga is sitting by the fireplace, casually flicking through the pages of one of Loki's books. She turns at the sound of Natasha's movement and smiles.

"Feeling better?" she asks.

"Yeah," Natasha replies quickly, throwing the covers off of herself and getting out of bed. She jams her feet into her boots, looks around for her jacket, and then, when she's located it, pulls that on too. "Will Odin see me now?"

Frigga puts down the book and nods. "He will see you now."

It's only now that Natasha notices, standing opposite the fireplace, that hanging on the wall above the mantel is a very familiar portrait. Frigga follows Natasha's line of sight and smiles.

"It's a very good likeness, isn't it?" she says. "I think he's captured your spirit very well."

Natasha tears her eyes away from it, not willing to be distracted, and Frigga stands and gestures towards the doors. Natasha heads towards them, with Frigga following, and when they leave, the doors close automatically behind them. Natasha rolls her shoulder as she walks, testing out its manoeuvrability. It feels a lot better, and although the skin feels just a little tight, she thinks she'll be able to handle it. The ache in her bones has lessened too, and she wonders if it's because of the healing solution, or the comfort of Loki's bed after days on the stiff mattress of the bed in the HQ sick bay. Perhaps it's a combination, but despite the churning in her stomach about how much time has been wasted on her recovery, she feels ready to fight, and has no qualms about how well she'll match up to the others when she arrives.

_If_ she arrives, she's reminded by a nasty voice in the back of her head, _if_.

Frigga leads the way back through a maze of corridors, but the journey away from Loki's room is faster than the journey there, and she imagines that that's just how Loki prefers it. Eventually they arrive at a set of double doors, a uniformed guard standing either side, and Frigga hangs back.

"Aren't you coming in with me?" Natasha asks.

Frigga shakes her head. "You are to speak with Odin alone."

"Okay," Natasha says, taking a deep a breath. Frigga gestures for the guards to open the doors and they follow the unspoken order. Natasha tries to make out the figure sitting in the throne at the end of a long aisle, but the distance is so great that she can just see the whiteness of his hair from afar. She pushes her shoulders back, brings herself up to her full height, and takes her first step into the room.

As she strides along the aisle, she considers her options. She could just go in all guns blazing and demand to be sent to Loki, or she could take Odin's side, acknowledge that he'll make the best decision for everyone concerned and just hope that it'll fall in her favour. Or, and this is the one she's less keen on, but unfortunately the one that will most likely secure her ticket to Loki, she can tell Odin about how royally fucked up his son is, how unstable, volatile and dangerous to everyone, including Thor he is, and that she and she alone will be able to steer Loki away from madness.

Natasha has no idea how Odin sees his son, only how Loki assumes he is seen by him, and she knows well enough that Loki's perception when it comes to his family is warped at best. She's going to have to follow her instinct on this one, and hope that neither her injuries, nor the cocktail of drugs, both from Earth and Asgard haven't affected her judgement too badly.

She soon reaches Odin, and looks at him cautiously, unsure of Asgardian etiquette. Does she even have to abide by their niceties when she's technically being held against her will on another world? Or is it a 'when in Rome…' situation?

"You wish for me to overrule my son?" Odin asks, his voice ringing clear in the cavernous hall.

"Yes," Natasha replies simply. "I do."

"On what grounds?"

"On the grounds that I should be able to make my own decisions. And the last time he did 'what he thought was best' we nearly lost everything." She is sure to meet Odin's eye now, she must assert some authority – he needs to believe that he won't be sending her to die.

"But if my son loses _you_ –"

"He won't. I'm tough."

"For a human, maybe," Odin says. His tone is not a mocking one, just plain, just stating the facts.

Natasha skews her lips. Granted, her nearly being blown to pieces less than a week ago isn't really helping her case, but she's recovered quickly, she's ready, she can handle it.

"I admire your desire to aid your friends," Odin says, getting up from his throne and stepping down towards her. "And am thankful that you wish to fight by my son's side. But after so much unhappiness in his life, I am unwilling to put at risk the light at the end of his tunnel."

"But –"

"I have made mistakes," Odin interrupts, holding up a hand to silence Natasha. "Grave mistakes where Loki is concerned. No longer. I shall not undermine his judgement."

"But his judgement is _flawed_, it's _atrocious_, even with the best will in the world he doesn't understand _consequences_."

"My son is no fool!" Odin bellows. Natasha falls silent, but stands her ground.

"Your son," she says quietly, as Odin turns away, "Has been to the darkest corners of the universe. He has _not_ come out unscathed."

Odin grips his staff, and Natasha waits for his reply. She wonders how much further she will have to push the blame in Odin's direction, whether he will respond to her vague suggestions before she airs the truth of it all for him to hear.

"But he's better now, because of you. He's better, and I won't put that at risk." For the first time, Odin sounds uncertain, his voice holding the faintest of tremors. He sits down heavily on his throne, still gripping his staff so hard that his knuckles pop under his skin.

"If he makes the wrong decision, if for just one moment he thinks of what he wants to do, or what he's capable of doing, instead of what he _needs_ to do, he'll be banished from Earth. He'll never be able to see me again, and that will all be because you wouldn't let me be with him when he needed me." She speaks quietly, gently, knowing that softly spoken words have a habit of worming their way into the listener's mind far more effectively than shouts and screams. If he doesn't let her go, if Loki makes a mistake that she could have prevented, it will be _her voice_ that Odin hears in the back of his mind, saying five poisonous little words: _this is all your fault._

"Nothing will ever prevent you from being here with him, you are welcome in Asgard always," Odin replies.

The sentiment is nice. The reality of it less so. If she had to choose between Earth and Asgard, she'd pick Earth every time. But to choose between Earth and Loki…well, the Asgardian had better get used to her jeans. Somehow though, none of it is enough. She knows that Loki would be happiest if he could spend a good portion of his time on Earth, painting for a living, eating ice cream and just living a life where he's not constantly reminded of how he's not as important as his brother, or how he has to behave a certain way because he's a prince.

"Loki will not jeopardise –" Odin begins after a long silence, but Natasha interrupts.

"Loki will not _think_ he's jeopardising anything at all," Natasha argues. "That's the problem, that's always been the problem. He doesn't see anything he does as _wrong_. Not until it's too late."

Odin closes his eye and inhales deeply. Apparently Natasha has pushed him to the very limits of his patience, but she is determined to get her way. She needs to, for Loki's sake, if nothing else.

"There are conditions," Odin says, so quietly that Natasha almost misses it.

"Fine," Natasha replies.

"If Heimdall perceives you to be in danger, he will return you to Asgard via the bifrost, and you shall remain here until the battle on Midgard is done."

Natasha chews on the inside of her lower lip for a moment, then, realising she has no real choice in the matter, says, "Agreed."

"Second," Odin says, and Natasha groans inwardly. "If you are going to battle, then you will go prepared."

Natasha's attention piques, and when she looks up at Odin, she sees the faintest hint of a smile, tugging at the corner of his mouth.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: **Ahhhh, chapter 15. Only two chapters left. I think. Hope you all enjoy!

* * *

**Golden**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

The weight of her clothes forces Natasha's knees to buckle when she lands. She's used to light fabrics, and already misses the breathability of her Kevlar jumpsuit. She can hear muttering around her, and then the familiar booming voice of Thor.

"Who goes there?"

As the dust clears and Natasha's surroundings come into focus, the muttering stops instantly, to be replaced with a chilly silence. Her eyes fall first onto Thor, whose expression of shock makes a smooth transition into a smile.

"Natasha," he says warmly, "You've come to join us."

"Yeah," Natasha replies, glancing quickly around the room. Bruce and Tony are leant over a laptop, the blue glow of the screen leaving their faces an odd, pale hue. Clint, who has a smirk on his face at the sight of her, is examining a table of blueprints with Steve, while Thor leans against the nearest wall, his blue eyes twinkling with delight. When Loki emerges from the shadows, Natasha's stomach drops. She had been desperate to see him, and would have thought he'd have expressed some relief, having finally had confirmation that she's absolutely fine, but he looks furious, murderous even, his jaw clenched, his expression cold. He, unlike Thor, is dressed in his mortal clothes, and the cuff of his leather jacket is scorched and misshapen.

"What are you doing here?" he demands, his voice low and dangerous.

"I wanted to help."

"I expressly forbade -"

"You can't _expressly forbid_ me to do anything," Natasha tells him. "That's not how things work."

"Heimdall took an oath," Loki spits, striding towards her, "and he has broken it."

"Your father overruled it," Natasha says softly. She knows the blow will come hard to Loki, knows that the knowledge that his father has cast Loki's own orders aside will not be handled well, and so she braces herself for an angry tirade, the tantrum to end all tantrums, but it doesn't come.

Loki blinks and turns away, the eyes of the team following him closely. From the corner of her eye, Natasha sees Thor straighten, his muscles stiffen. Loki turns back to Natasha, his hand clutching at his hair, his eyes overbright.

"Does he not understand?" His voice cracks, and over his shoulder, Natasha can see Steve suddenly become extra interested in the blueprints. Loki swallows, his eyes meeting Natasha's. "I nearly lost you, not even a week ago. I cannot, _will not_, ever allow that to happen again."

"So you wrap me in a bubble and don't let me go outside?"

"I don't let you go to battle," he argues.

"You know what I am," Natasha says quietly, taking a step towards him and smoothing the collar of his jacket.

"I do not doubt your ability," Loki says, touching his forehead to hers. "But these mortals deal with more than hand to hand combat. You have no protection against their methods; I have seen first hand the damage it does."

"You really think your father would overrule you without considering that?" Natasha asks. "There are conditions on my being here."

"Such as?"

"Such _as_, if Heimdall thinks I might so much as scrape my knee, he'll drag me back to Asgard and keep me there until you come and get me."

Something shifts behind Loki's eyes, and Natasha feels his breath steady out, the slight tremor easing off, as the knowledge of Heimdall's protection calms him.

"_And_," Natasha continues, "I'm not exactly wearing all this -" she gestures to her newly acquired Asgardian armour, "-because it's this season's must have."

The faintest smile touches Loki's lips, and he takes a step back so he can have a good look at her. Her chest plate is heavy, so heavy that she can't imagine she'll keep it on for long. Her boots are constructed of thick, stiff leather, stopping just below the knee, secured with chunky brass buckles. Strapped to her thighs is a collection of razor sharp daggers, with intricately gilded hilts, the blades engraved with a language she cannot read.

"It's definitely a look I could get used to," Loki says, his smile spreading. "Though I am a fan of your usual workwear as well..."

Natasha allows herself a small smirk, but the moment is broken by Tony.

"Hey, Bonnie and Clyde, hate to break things up but we _are_ supposed to be tracing a terrorist cell before they blow another chunk out of Europe."

"What have we got?" Natasha asks, side stepping Loki and heading to the large table in the centre of the room. Clint hands her a file and Natasha flips it open, scanning the information on the first page. One of the men she had been on the lookout for in France, all that time ago, when she had first run into the mortal shadow of Loki, is apparently called Hugo Moldenska, and his unfamiliar counterpart is Ismael Dalovna. She's never heard the names before, and as she reads on, it becomes clear why. Moldenska was, until the spring, a guest lecturer in biochemistry, travelling from country to country, stopping at the great science universities – Standford, MIT, Cambridge, Tokyo – to discuss his research in various academic studies over the years. Dalovna, his brother in law, is a labourer. No criminal record between them, no extremist links, no organisations, no gangs, nothing. Natasha's frown deepens, and she turns the page, glancing over the family tree, health records, addresses, both current and previous, financial activity (the highlighted irregularities only go back as far as March) but she can't see anything that would lead two seemingly normal men to blow up one of the world's greatest landmarks.

She puts the file down, and Bruce meets her eye in an 'I know...' kind of way. Natasha looks at the blueprints, tilting her head to try and get a better view of them.

"What's this?" she asks.

"Major European landmarks," Clint says shortly. "We're trying to establish their next target."

"Based on what?"

"Ease of access, level of potential damage, anticipated media coverage...whatever we can think of. They're giving nothing away."

"But we know it's gonna happen?" Natasha asks. She glances over to Tony and Bruce, the latter flipping the laptop around so Natasha can see the screen.

"This was released, during the aftermath of Paris," Bruce says, clicking a few buttons. A video fills the screen, and the faces of Moldenska and Dalovna are just visible in the dimly lit room. Dalovna has his hands clasped in his lap, and is looking down at the floor, while Moldenska looks into the camera, a bead of sweat running down the side of his bald head.

"Now that we have your attention," Moldenska begins, his English clear, though a little skewed by an accent that Natasha can't yet pinpoint. Eastern Europe, most certainly, and she strains her ears trying to pick up clues to narrow it down further.

"Our request is simple," Moldenska continues, "You are to release the following individuals from captivity." The video cuts to a series of photographs, and Natasha recognises some of the faces, eight of them in total, "If you do not comply, we will choose another target, and the list of the dead will rise exponentially. You have one week."

The screen goes black, and Bruce swivels the laptop around once more. Natasha drops into the nearest chair, her armour clanging against the plastic. She huffs and shifts into the most comfortable position (which isn't very comfortable at all) and chews the inside of her cheeks as she processes the information.

"I should have snapped his neck when I had the chance," Loki hisses.

"No you shouldn't," Natasha says quietly. "You did the right thing."

"Really? Is this what the 'right thing' feels like?" he asks sarcastically.

"The right thing is never the easy thing, brother," Thor says, but his words only cause Loki to bristle and pace around the room impatiently.

"The eight they've demanded for release are currently in custody - three in France, two in Germany, two in the UK and one in Italy," Steve says, dragging them back to business. "From this we can assume that their next target will be in one of those three places."

"We can rule out the UK, there's no way they'd get across the border, not if all of Europe's on red alert," Natasha replies.

"_Can _we rule it out though?" Bruce reasons. "It's an island with a hell of a lot of coastline, they could have gone by boat straight from France and been there within hours."

Tony shakes his head. "They'd need to transport materials, and they'd need one hell of a big boat for stability. They wouldn't be able to just pull up to a beach with a vessel that size, with that kind of cargo. No way."

"So we're left with Germany and Italy," Clint says, leaning back in his chair and waving a hand at the blueprints on the table. He stretches out his legs and rests his hands behind his head. He looks tired, and Natasha wonders when he last slept, when _any of them_ last slept, if they've been working on this for days. "They could have gotten to both Germany and Italy without going through borders; Europe's just _completely_ open. They've set up patrols on the main highways but they probably got out before anybody knew what was happening."

Natasha sighs and leans her chin on the heel of her palm. "Where are we?" she asks.

"The outskirts of Lucerne," Steve says. "Switzerland, halfway between Germany and Italy. The deadline's close, we don't know whether to split up or - "

"No," Loki interrupts, "We don't split up." He glances briefly at Natasha and continues his pacing.

"Well then we have to choose," Steve says, "And I vote Germany because they're holding more of their people than the Italians are."

Loki shakes his head. "That's what they want us to think, they start big and end big, if they don't they'll lose everything."

"Speaking from experience?" Steve asks, his expression neutral, bar the slight quirk of his eyebrow. There is an edge to his tone that Loki doesn't miss, and he immediately rounds on Steve. The others stand in unison, Natasha along with them, but Steve just stares at Loki, daring him to act.

"The brave Captain only has courage when surrounded by his bigger, more powerful friends. Have the rest of you noticed? By all means go to Germany, Captain, I daresay your bravery will come to good use there; doing nothing of value always demands a good deal of valour, does it not?"

Steve stands suddenly, his chair skidding away from him and colliding with the table behind. "No," Steve growls, "Doing nothing of value is usually _your area_. I can't believe Fury even _thought_ it was a good idea to let a cold blooded killer in on this mission. How do we know that you're even on our side? You could be leading us down a false trail!"

Natasha grabs Loki by the arm before he has a chance to react, and pulls him away firmly. "I'm a cold blooded killer by trade," she tells Steve icily. "I don't see you accusing me of leading you down a false trail."

"Captain," Thor says softly. "The only side my brother takes is Natasha's. He wishes for nothing more than to bring those who hurt her to justice. You may differ with your motivations, but your goals are the same."

Natasha keeps a tight grip on Loki, knowing full well that should he wish to attack, there'd be nothing she could do, but hopefully the pressure of her hand on him will be enough to keep his temper at bay. He's trembling with rage, and she hopes to God that Steve will keep his mouth shut. One more word from him is liable to push Loki over the edge, and that's the last thing they need. They've been here before, bickering amongst themselves, and where did they end up last time? Falling from the sky with one of their best men down.

She doesn't bring that up now, it'd be like throwing petrol onto an open fire, but she wishes that for once, everyone could just forget their egos and forget their pride and focus on what's important.

"I would say," Bruce says carefully. "That the Germans would pull together a better defence than the Italians. They'd be a much harder target."

"Agreed," Tony says. "I think Italy. It's a little more..."

"What?" Steve demands.

"Picture perfect," Tony finishes with a slight grimace at his phrasing. "If they were making a political point in France, they'd have blown up the Palais Bourbon, but they went for the Eiffel Tower. Tourists, civilians, it was a _show_. They went for something the whole world recognised, and blew it to smithereens. They got the world's attention."

"But where in Italy would we even start? Rome? Milan? Pisa?"

Clint sighs and begins to sort through the blueprints, pulling out a couple of sheets and spreading them over the top of the others. "That is a question..." he says slowly, frowning at the different structures. Natasha pulls Loki back a step, then releases him, to concentrate on the prints.

"Rome?" Tony suggests. "It's the capital, and there's a lot of stuff there - the Vatican, the Colosseum, take your pick."

Natasha skews her lips.

"I think they'd be pretty angry about the Colosseum," Bruce says, taking a seat once more, his eyes flicking between Steve and Loki, just to make sure things aren't going to turn nasty.

"It's nearly a couple thousand years old..." Natasha muses.

Thor frowns at this. "What difference does that make?"

Loki finally turns away from Steve, and Natasha can feel him relax at her side almost immediately. "That is a long time for the mortals. They become sentimental over things like that."

"You're not sentimental over Asgard?" Natasha asks, twisting to face him. Loki shakes his head, and deciding she'd best not push the subject, Natasha returns her attention to the table. In her peripheral vision, she sees Thor's expression drop in disappointment.

"The Colosseum's pretty open," Clint says, smoothing out the blueprints.

"So's the Eiffel Tower," Natasha replies.

"It's big though," Clint continues. "I mean, with the Eiffel Tower they just need to take out the four legs and the rest went with it. The Colosseum is _huge_, and it doesn't have a small base. They're either going to have to get a hell of a lot of explosives or they're not going to cause a great deal of damage."

Natasha nods, chewing on her lower lip. Clint has a point, but how do they even begin to work out which target is going to cause the greatest spectacle with the least amount of effort? How do you grade something like that?

"What about the Leaning Tower of Pisa?" Bruce asks. "It's already halfway over, probably wouldn't take much to...finish it off."

"Milan's easier to get to, more crowded too," Natasha replies.

"Show me," Loki says quietly, his breath warm against the back of Natasha's neck. She leans across the table to grab the map and spreads it out in front of them. She shows Loki their current position, then Milan, Pisa, and Rome. He places a hand on her waist as he looks at the map, and pulls her closer, the zip of his jacket clanking noisily against her armour.

"It's Milan, isn't it?" he says quietly. "They can escape quickly - there are three borders nearby, the further south they go, the more difficult it will be to leave after...the event."

Natasha hadn't thought of that. She's been so stuck on the idea of getting somewhere and causing a scene that she hasn't even considered that Moldenska's plans don't stop today. She supposes that the most difficult part isn't the act itself, but the disappearing act that he and Dalovna will need to do afterwards.

"There will be no _after_," Steve says pointedly. "There won't _be_ another attack. We're going to do our jobs."

"There's no _after_ in _our_ plans Captain," Loki says patiently, "But I daresay that theirs rather differ."

Natasha places her hand on top of Loki's and gives it a squeeze. She understands Steve's reservations about Loki, understands that it must hurt, to be one of those at the forefront of the group, one of those who Fury always goes to straight away when there's a job to be done, only to have the guy that tried to take over the planet be added to the team with no consultation, no proof, other than Thor's word, that he'll be on their side, and be expected to listen to him, even respect him. It's difficult, she gets that, but maybe Steve doesn't understand that given Loki's past, given all of his schemes and plans which he's tried to inflict on people, he knows how people like this think. Steve, the symbol of courage and freedom and whatever else America claims to stand for, could never in a million years think like one of the bad guys, because it's just not in his nature. He's never walked in the shoes of an enemy, he's only ever been the exceptionally good guy. Decent to the bone. Loki, on the other hand, well he's no angel, and Natasha doubts he ever will be.

"I think we should head to Milan," Clint says, his voice quiet. "It's our best bet."

"And what if it's not Milan? What if it's Rome? Or _Berlin_?"

"We can't just sit here and wait, we need to act."

"But what use will we be in Milan if -?"

As the bickering gathers momentum, and the voices merge into one another, Natasha closes her eyes and leans back against Loki. They've been here before, and Natasha is not going to join in. Loki is also staying silent, but apart from the two of them, everyone else is making a great deal of noise.

"Captain, why do you find it so hard to believe that Loki _also_ wants to capture these men?"

"He wants to get revenge, but he doesn't care if that's today or tomorrow, or if a hundred innocent people die between now and then. We all know _first hand_ he has no regard for human life."

Natasha opens her eyes and inhales sharply, ready to respond, but Loki closes his fingers around her wrist and moves his thumb gently against her skin in a calming motion. His message is quite clear: don't even bother.

"My brother's mind was addled by creatures from the darkest realms! He is a completely different man as he stands before you today!"

She feels Loki stiffen behind her at the use of the word 'addled' but he doesn't say anything, doesn't argue, doesn't add any fuel to the already roaring fire.

"Oh what a convenient excuse - is that why your father thought it was appropriate to send him down to the world he tried to take over, with no thought for its citizens?"

"You think my father foolish? Selfish?" Thor's voice has become low and dangerous. Natasha's never heard it take on that tone before, and she twists her neck to look up at Loki, who's watching the argument like a spectator at a particularly brutally fought tennis match. There's a quality to his expression that reminds her of somebody watching a car crash on TV, a sort of morbid curiosity that extracts entertainment from disaster areas.

"I think -"

"Guys?" Bruce's voice rings out clear in the room, though he's barely raised it above its normal volume. Everybody stops, Steve, mid-sentence, and turns to look at him.

"What is it?" Tony asks.

"Alarm was raised at the...Duomo di Milano," Bruce says, struggling slightly with the pronunciation. "But shut off after four and a half seconds. Apparently everything's fine there."

Silence falls, all except for the faint _pip, pip, pip_ of an alert on the laptop, the red flash lighting Bruce's features intermittently.

Clint gets to his feet and slings his quiver over his shoulder. "Let's go."

There is a scramble for weapons, and as Natasha slips a Colt and some spare magazines into the empty holsters on her thighs, she notices that Loki is leaning against the door frame, his arms folded, looking the same as he has for months, while everybody else suits up and prepares for battle.

"Are you going like that?" she asks.

He nods.

"You don't need any weapons? You had the spear last time..." she trails off awkwardly, not wanting to bring up the past.

"I don't need it." He smiles briefly, though it does little to appease her concerns. He doesn't look like a man prepared for battle. He looks like a man prepared for a night in a bar. She doesn't say any more, and he leads her up the stairs, the rest following.

"Don't get hurt," Loki says to her quietly as they step outside. "Please."

"I'll do my best."

He squeezes her hand, both of them well aware that come the heat of battle, she'll forget all about her promise.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: **Holy schnitzel, this chapter has nearly killed me. It's a long one, so I hope you're sitting comfortably. One more to go after this. Nearly done. But I'll get emotional later. Let me know what you think!

* * *

**Golden**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

The piazza is crowded. The sun is sinking low in the sky, casting a red haze over everything in its path, the shadows of the ornate lamp posts stretching across the paving slabs. Natasha feels like an idiot in her clunky Asgardian armour, and between her and Thor, the group manages to attract a few curious looks. A collection of teenagers openly laughs at them, pointing their fingers and throwing back their heads with glee. The Duomo towers over the square, lit up like a Christmas tree, people swarming around like ants, cameras flashing in the distance.

"We'll go in ahead," Bruce says quietly, putting a hand on Tony's shoulder and leading him away from the group. "If they've infiltrated the staff then we can't be recognised going in."

"You're going in without a suit?" Steve asks Tony.

"I don't need the suit," Tony replies, "Not for this." He follows Bruce towards the entrance of the Duomo, and they soon become lost amongst the crowds of tourists.

"We need to get everybody out of there," Steve says, his eyes fixed on the huge doorway, crowds of people visible inside. "Or they'll blow it up as soon as they know we're here."

"You three go in," Natasha says, gesturing to Steve, Clint, and Loki. "We'll..." she looks at Thor, and then down at his armour and sighs. "We'll try and get everybody out of the square."

Her orders are followed without question, Loki squeezing her hand before they part. She watches them go, hoping, despite the voice in the back of her head that keeps telling her otherwise, that this is going to be a clean, casualty-free event. As much as she relishes in the adrenalin rush, these days, she would rather swap an evening like this for sky diving, or perhaps swimming with sharks. There's been a little too much death around her in recent years.

She approaches the nearest police officer, who eyes her sceptically, before she breaks out into Italian, rapidly informing him of the situation. There are at least a dozen of his colleagues in the area, on constant alert after Moldenska's threats, but they are completely unaware of any disturbance inside the Duomo. Thor stands next to her, looming over the officer, hammer at his side, as the officer speaks into his radio, alerting the others. They spring into action, walking quickly towards large groups of tourists, ushering them towards the streets, away from the cathedral.

"They're not moving quickly enough," Natasha murmurs, watching as people only half listen to the officers, apparently considering their social lives to be more important than instructions from the police.

"Shall I encourage them?" Thor asks, without a hint of humour in his voice. He's gripping his hammer tightly, but before Natasha can tell him not to cause a scene, the sound of gunshots crackles through the piazza, and people run screaming from the cathedral entrance, spilling out into the square.

"So much for keeping it quiet," Natasha sighs. "Let's go."

She sprints towards the Duomo, the edges of her armour digging into her shoulders. She's surrounded by chaos, and quickly loses Thor in the confusion. At one point, she sees a flicker of red somewhere ahead of her, and assumes he's made it past her somehow, probably knocking tourists flying as he goes.

She forces her way against the tide of people trying to escape, and after much pushing and shoving, she makes it into the cathedral. She sees an armed guard, gun raised, taking aim at Thor, who is battling his way towards the stairs leading down to the lower chambers, where she assumes Tony and Bruce are. She pulls a dagger from the straps on her thighs and launches it through the air. It strikes the guard in the throat, showering all those around him in splashes of crimson blood. Suddenly, it's a lot easier for her to get through the crowds, and she pulls the knife from the guard's throat and slides it back into place against her thigh. She looks around to find that the cathedral is emptying out now, but someone catches her eye.

It's a man, moving calmly in amongst all the panic. He's alone. He has no camera slung about his neck, no map sticking out of his back pocket, not even a pair of sunglasses hooked on the collar of his t-shirt. He's looking down at the floor, but as Natasha approaches, he looks up, and she recognises him from his photo - the sunken eyes, the wiry frame, tattoo creeping up his neck. He must realise he's been spotted, because he tries to make a dash for it, but Natasha is too fast for him. She grabs him by the back of the t-shirt and pulls him back into the main hall, throwing him to the ground. She rests her boot on his chest, keeping him in place, and his fingers scrabble at the sole, trying to shift it off of himself.

"Who are you working for?" Natasha demands.

"Please, _please_!" Dalovna begs, his hands pushing furiously at her boot, his eyes wide and panicky.

Natasha takes out her largest dagger, and kneels down, resting her weight on his chest and pressing the tip of the blade against the hollow of Dalovna's throat.

"I'm going to ask you again," she says calmly, "who are you working for?"

"They took my brother!" he cries. "And my sister! They took her after Paris!" His eyes are wet with tears, shining with fear as he tries to pull away from Natasha's dagger.

"You need to tell me everything," she says. "Quickly."

"My brother, Johann, he is a journalist!" Dalovna gushes. "And they took him, and they told us, they say _no police_. We had to do what they say to get him back, so we blow up the Eiffel Tower!"

Natasha grits her teeth. Seventy-two innocent lives and one of Europe's most famous landmarks in exchange for a journalist? She's hardly one to judge however, and so she says nothing.

"But then, they take my sister, because nobody give them what they want, and they tell us to _try harder_!"

"Who are _they_?" Natasha questions.

For the first time, Dalovna falters. Natasha presses the blade harder against his throat, a small speck of red starting to pool as she nicks the skin.

"They call themselves..."

A gunshot sounds close by and Dalovna flinches, but Natasha holds him in place. "_Tell me_."

"Desta 535!" he says in a rush. "Please! My family - I didn't want to -"

"Where are they? Where are they based?"

"They keep them in Luxembourg! Hugo, he manage to trace their calls, but if we don't do what they say, they kill Johann, and Katia!"

Natasha sighs and hauls Dalovna to his feet, dragging him towards the exit. She presses a finger against her earpiece, enabling it, and says, "Fury, do you copy?"

"Nice of you to check in..." The reply comes slightly crackled, but Natasha doesn't miss the sarcasm lacing his words.

"I have a location for the ringleaders," she tells him, pulling Dalovna across the piazza as she speaks. She relays the information to Fury then hands Dalovna to the nearest police officer. "Keep hold of him!" she says, and the officer doesn't question her, instead snapping a set of cuffs around Dalovna's wrists.

"Please," Dalovna begs, "You must understand, my family!"

"Where's Moldenska?"

"Inside," Dalovna says brokenly, a tear trickling down his face. "Please, we just want our family -"

Natasha hurries back towards the cathedral, uninterested in Dalovna's snivelling. The place is nearly clear, bar the Desta agents - Steve is taking on a group of them at the far end, and in the corner, by the staircase, is Loki. He has Moldenska by the throat, pinned against the wall, his round face turning purple under the pressure.

"Loki, no!" Natasha runs over to him, and tries to pull his arm away from Moldenska, but he's far too strong.

"She's alive," Loki spits at Moldenska, whose eyes are bulging in their sockets. "But she shouldn't be, not really. D'you have any idea what she looked like when I pulled her out of that mess? Any idea how much magic I had to summon to keep her _alive_? _Do you_?" Loki's yell echoes around the cathedral, blending with the sound of gunshots and yells.

"Loki, let him _go_!"

Loki is trembling, his knuckles popping white under his skin as he grips Moldenska, tighter and tighter, cutting off the oxygen. "I nearly lost her!" he screams. "So give me one good reason as to why I shouldn't kill _you!_"

Natasha places her hand over Loki's and gently pulls at his fingers. When she speaks, she keeps her voice level, calm, and as soothing as it's possible to be in the midst of battle. "Loki please, let go. You're a better man than this."

Loki hesitates, but then tightens his hold again. "An eye for an eye, isn't that what you mortals say?"

"No," Natasha tells him. "That's not what we say."

"Then what do you say?" Loki hisses. "If not that, then _what_?"

Natasha casts around for something meaningful, something that will change his mind, pull him back from his desperate quest for vengeance, but she can only come up with four, pathetic, childish words. "Don't be an asshole."

"What?"

"Don't sink to his level - the others need our help, let's hand him over to the cops, do things properly, and then get on with doing our _jobs_, okay?"

"This isn't my _job_," Loki argues. "This is -"

"_No_," Natasha says, "It's not. You're an _artist_. You're an artist moonlighting as a secret agent and Loki, there are still some huge question marks next to your name after what's gone on in the past. But if you do the right thing now? You'll wipe a ton of those out."

"Doing the right thing..." Loki repeats, almost laughing. "The right thing never seems to be what I want."

"Of course it isn't, it never _is_," she says, pulling him round to face her fully. His hand falls away from Moldenska, who drops to the floor, coughing and wheezing, struggling for breath. "That's why it's always so damn _hard_."

"He deserves to die," Loki says firmly. "After what he did to you."

Natasha shakes her head.

"I let him go once before -"

"We're not letting him go, we're handing him over to the authorities."

Loki gives her a disgusted look, and gazes down at Moldenska, the redness starting to fade from his face as he heaves in sharp, unsteady breaths. Natasha stares at him, unwilling to compromise on this. It needs to be his own choice though, she can't just take Moldenska, he needs to do it himself. He glances up at her, meeting her eyes, but then quickly returns his attention to Moldenska.

"Be the hero, even if just for a minute," Natasha says softly. A bullet catches against the stone and she blinks, her eyes darting to find the source, but Loki is blocking her view.

"Okay," he says at last. "Fine." He picks up Moldenska by the scruff of his shirt and drags him through the doors, out into the piazza. Natasha follows, waving over a police officer, who then proceeds to cuff Moldova and take him towards a squad car in the distance, blue lights flashing.

"Come on," Natasha says, tugging at Loki's hand. "Let's go find the others."

When they get back inside, Natasha sees Steve at the far end of the cathedral, battling against four of the armed guards. His left arm is cradled against his chest, and as he throws punches with his right hand, he overbalances and stumbles.

"Go find Clint," Natasha tells Loki. "I'll help Steve."

Loki nods, holds her gaze for a moment, and heads towards the stairs. Natasha breaks into a sprint, her armour leaving her slower than usual, but she soon reaches Steve, taking out one of the Desta agents with a roundhouse kick that he doesn't even see coming. She goes into autopilot, concentrating less on what she's doing and more on doing it right, taking into account her armour and its limitations. She hears a shot fire, and the impact causes her to fall back, but she quickly regains her balance, her chest plate sporting a dent but no other damage.

Steve launches himself at the culprit, tackling him to the ground, while Natasha takes care of the last remaining agent with a palm to the nose. He falls back, and Natasha grabs him by the hair and slams him against one of the pews. He collapses to the floor, and Natasha turns to see Steve, breathing heavily, his shirt stained with scarlet. She heaves him to his feet and drags him towards the exit, but he starts to protest, trying to tug away, though her grasp on him keeps him in place.

"I'm not leaving!" he argues. "I'm not!"

Natasha ignores him, and he gives in, his feet scuffing against the floor as they half run towards the doors. When they reach the piazza, Natasha takes him over to sit at the concrete base of one of the street lamps, pulls her smallest knife out and grips Steve by the shoulder.

"Natasha -"

"It's this or hours in hospital," she tells him. At this, Steve closes his eyes in resignation, and, working as quickly as she can, Natasha clears away the excess blood around Steve's bullet wound. She hasn't done this for a good few years, and she recalls a time when Clint didn't speak to her for three days straight after she pulled a bullet out of him, but the sooner this thing is out, the better. She braces herself, can feel Steve straining to keep still, and before he has a chance to even yell, she's levered out the bullet with the tip of her knife, the small piece of lead popping out and falling to the ground, followed by a short spurt of blood, which splatters across the paving slabs.

Steve lets out a breath of relief, when Natasha moves away, and she takes his right hand, pressing against his left shoulder. "Keep that there," she tells him. "And I'll see you in five."

"I'm coming back in with you," Steve argues, but his face is pale, and there's something in his eyes that suggests he's struggling to maintain any sort of balance.

Natasha shakes her head. "You've lost a lot of blood. Stay here."

Steve starts to stand up, but when Natasha pushes him back down, he falls back easily. "Stay here or I'll _make_ you," she threatens. Steve doesn't need telling again, and he lets out a deep sigh, closing his eyes and resigning himself to his fate.

Natasha runs back towards the cathedral, pressing a finger against her earpiece to get in touch with Tony. "How's it going down there?" she calls, skidding towards the stairs leading to the lower vault. There is a Desta agent hiding out in the stairwell, and before he can take aim and fire, Natasha sends her heavy boot flying into his jaw. He tumbles backwards down the stairs, his head crunching unpleasantly against the concrete.

"The timer's surrounded by explosives," Tony replies quickly, his voice low as he concentrates on his work. "Any tampering and we'll set the whole thing off. All we can do is disconnect each barrel but there's at least a dozen down here..."

"How long left before it blows?"

"Not long."

Natasha reaches the bottom of the stairs and hurries along to the end of the corridor, where she can hear shots being fired. When she reaches the vault at the end, she sees Thor, holding back more Desta agents than she can count, while Tony and Bruce work furiously in the chamber beyond, fingers moving fast over wires, Bruce squinting through his glasses in the low light.

Natasha picks the nearest agent and throws herself towards him, knife in hand, sinking it into his chest as soon is she is able. A blow to the head knocks her to the floor and she looks up to see the barrel of a gun. Without even thinking about it, she swipes her leg at the agent's knees, sending him crashing to the floor, before grabbing his gun and putting one of his own bullets through him. She jumps up, her head throbbing, and she touches her fingertips against the spot where it hurts most. It stings, and when she pulls her hand away, it's stained red. Ignoring it, she fires a couple of shots at the back of an agent trying to sneak around Thor and into the chamber where Tony and Bruce are working. He shrieks as he falls, but before Natasha can choose her next opponent, she is grabbed from behind by strong arms. Without hesitating, she sends her elbow flying up towards her attacker's face, and when she makes contact, his grip loosens enough for her to grab him by the wrist and twist his arm around. He cries out when she reaches its breaking point, but Natasha doesn't stop. The _crack_ of the bone is satisfying to that predatory, merciless part of her that always seems to surface in moments like this, no matter how hard she tries to keep it at bay.

"Natasha! Go!" Thor yells at her.

Natasha shakes her head, then spins round, her fist landing in the face of another agent. "I'm not leaving!"

"There's not much time left!" Thor replies, his voice mingled with the swish and crunch of his hammer colliding with the face of an unsuspecting Desta agent.

Natasha ignores him and continues to fight as more agents run down the stairs and along the corridor towards the chamber, swarming around them. Shots are fired and she feels them ricochet off her chest plate, the heat of one as it narrowly misses her ear and sinks into the agent behind her.

"Loki needs you!" Thor calls. "He's on the roof!" He swings his hammer, taking out half a dozen agents in one go, and it is this that assures Natasha that Thor will be fine holding the fort down here. She darts towards the corridor, sprinting along it and then climbing the stairs two at a time, her heart pounding, head throbbing, and her shoulders aching from the weight of her armour.

The main floor of the cathedral is practically empty, and so she dashes towards the stairs, hearing shots overhead. She hauls herself up them, her hand slipping on the bannister, slick with blood, but soon she is out in the open air. Suddenly, she has a gun pointed in her face, but the Desta agent's face contorts into a brief expression of shock, his mouth forming a small 'o', and then he falls face first into the ground, a long slender arrow sticking out between his shoulder blades.

Her eyes meet Clint's briefly and she nods her thanks, before she heads over to Loki who has a Desta agent by the neck. He throws him over the side of the roof, and there is a long, drawn out scream, and then a distant thud that makes Natasha's stomach clench. Loki turns, his hands reaching for Natasha as she nears him. She checks him over, but he's relatively uninjured - a few scrapes here, a cut or two there, a nasty bruise forming on his right cheekbone. His leather jacket is ripped at the shoulder, and Natasha's hand moves up to try and pull the material back together, to keep it from splitting any more of the stitches. It seems a silly thing to do, given the circumstances, but somehow he doesn't look right without his jacket in one piece.

"Are you all right?" Loki asks breathlessly.

Natasha nods. "You?"

"Yes."

"Thor said you needed me," she tells him. She looks around, and Clint is holding his own with a Desta agent, fists flying.

"Right now?" Loki asks, an eyebrow raised in confusion.

"Yeah, he's downstairs, he said -"

Tony's call comes through, loud, panicked, and clear.

"Everybody out! Now!"

Natasha doesn't think twice. She grabs Loki by the arm, not caring that her grip is probably painfully tight, and searches around for Clint to see him fire off one last arrow then turn towards the exit. She doesn't waste any time, and hauls Loki down the steps, her armour teaming up with gravity to make her travel even faster than anticipated. Loki's long legs don't struggle to keep up and they reach the ground floor, heading for the door. Clint's already ahead of them, and glances over his shoulder to ensure that they're still there.

They've not even made it a third of the way across the piazza when there is a gigantic boom that shakes the ground beneath them, followed by something that sounds like a rumble of thunder. Without warning, paving slabs erupt from the ground, lumps of concrete flying in every direction. Loki pulls Natasha close, his arms protecting her head, and turns them around, his back towards the explosion. It settles quickly, and Natasha hears some coughing a spluttering. She turns, pulling away from Loki, her heart still racing, to find the cause.

Tony is lying face down on the floor, his arms and the side of his face blackened with soot. Bruce towers over him, transformed, his gigantic chest heaving, muscles rippling under his green skin. Steve marches over to Tony and rolls him over, his left arm still cradled against his chest.

"You okay?" Steve asks.

"Yeah," Tony says breathlessly, pushing himself up into a sitting position. "Although next time, how about we use the door, eh big guy?"

Bruce claps Tony on the back, sending him shooting forward on the concrete a good six feet, a grimace on his face.

"We're one short," Clint murmurs.

Natasha whips her head around, but Loki is already striding back into the building, with no care for the smoky haze that will make it impossible to see, nor for the fact that part of the piazza, above underground vaults, has collapsed and sunk much lower than the rest. She's willing to bet that that's where Thor is, and a lump forms in her throat as she goes to follow Loki. Clint catches her by the arm and hauls her back, his grip firm.

"But -"

"No," he says.

Natasha bites her lip, and turns to the rest of the team. They can't just leave Thor in there, even if Loki's gone to get him. He might be trapped, Loki might need help. It's a sorry band of soldiers in front of her though - Tony, a deep gash around his hairline that he's pressing the cuff of his sleeve against, Steve, with a bullet wound in his shoulder, Bruce, slowly returning to his human form and looking like he's suffering from the worst hangover ever. Even Clint, seemingly invincible Clint, who always _always _bounces back with a vengeance, is bloody, trembling slightly from the adrenalin rush, exhausted after the exertion of battle.

The wait is agonising, and they all stand in silence, waiting for something, _anything_, to emerge from the smoke. Bruce pulls on his jeans (he is thankfully far more prepared these days than he was during New York) his face sweaty and still a little green. All around, the crowds have been held back by the police. Phones are held aloft by the onlookers, taking pictures, filming the scene, and Natasha wishes they'd just go _away_ because she needs Loki to come back out of there, and soon, because if he doesn't, she's going in there to fetch him herself, and _nobody_ is going to stop her.

She tries to breathe steadily, her heart thudding mercilessly against the inside of her ribcage. She counts her breaths, hoping that it will give her a reasonable idea of how much time is passing - if she leaves it too late, she'll never be able to forgive herself.

Just as she's about to wrench Clint's hand off of her and storm into the Duomo, she sees a shadow appear in the smoke. With each ever-quickening breath, it grows bigger, and bigger, until it reaches the doors and steps out of the haze, into the piazza.

Natasha runs forward and Clint lets her go without a word. Loki is struggling under Thor's weight, one of his huge arms around Loki's shoulder, his feet dragging against the floor, his head bowed forward, lolling like that of a rag doll. When she reaches them, Natasha takes Thor's other arm and places it round her own shoulder, taking some of the weight, though the height difference between her and Loki makes it difficult for her to make much of a difference. Clint joins them, and shoulders some of the weight, and they soon make it back to the others. Steve is jogging back towards the group with a couple of paramedics, whose faces betray their feelings of utter bewilderment at the situation.

They rest Thor on the ground, and for the first time, Natasha can see the severity of his injuries. The skin on his arms is scorched, and there is a horrible, acrid stench of burnt flesh emanating from him. The top of his head is bleeding, his hair matted and scarlet, and it looks as though the force of the blast threw him backwards, his head taking the brunt of the impact.

Loki roots in the pocket of his jacket, which is even more blistered than before, and pulls out a few pale round stones. He lifts Thor's head, placing it in his lap, then crumbles the stone with one hand, ensuring the pieces fall into the wound on Thor's head. Natasha holds her breath, wondering if this is what it was like for him in the aftermath of Paris, silently working, his face pale, fixed, expressionless. She picks up one of the stones laying on the ground next to him, brushing her thumb against it. It looks like a normal pebble, nothing special, and yet she can see the difference, as the blood flow starts to slow and the colour grows stronger in Thor's face.

"You want me to -?" she holds up the stone and gestures to the burns on Thor's arm.

Loki shakes his head. "You won't be strong enough," he murmurs. "You're mortal."

Natasha puts the stone down, and waits patiently while Loki works. At one point he begins muttering under his breath, words she cannot make out, as he sprinkles the crumbled stone over Thor's burns, which sizzle and smoke at the contact. She can feel acid rising in her throat but swallows it down, determined not to weaken when it is so crucial that she remain strong.

"Is there anything we can -?"

"No." Loki cuts Bruce off and he nods, his eyes, like those of everybody else, fixed on Thor. The seconds turn into minutes, and Natasha soon finds herself counting her breaths again. It is difficult to believe that Thor, the God of Thunder, is their biggest casualty of the evening. This is the man whose strength can match the Hulk's, the man who wields Mjolnir as though it were as light as a feather. Of all of them, surely he was the least likely to be injured?

But then the memories filter through, slightly broken and awkward. Thor battling against nearly a dozen armed guards, the barrels of explosives behind them, the flash of red as each second ticked away. He would have been at the epicentre of the blast, should really have been wiped out, like she imagines the rest of the Desta agents were. If anything, it is a testament to his Asgardian genetics that he's still in one piece.

With the last of the healing stones crumbled over Thor's arm, Loki rests his fists on Thor's chest plate, his lips pressed into a thin line as he joins the others in the waiting game. Natasha reaches out to place her hand on his, and he twines their fingers together, his hands chalky from the stones.

Sirens wail in the distance, and police start to fill the area. The medics that Steve returned with are sorting out his shoulder properly, while Steve grits his teeth. After a minute, Loki slams his fist against Thor's chest plate impatiently, his jaw trembling minutely, his breathing loud, heavy. Thor doesn't move, and Loki starts shaking his head, before pulling his hand free of Natasha's and searching his pockets for more healing stones.

"Just one more," he says softly. "Just one more."

His pockets are empty however, and Loki looks up at the sky, blinking more frequently than usual, his front teeth buried in his lower lip. Natasha tries to chase away the cold feeling creeping through her, but with each moment that passes without any hint of life from Thor, it becomes more and more difficult. She wants to do something, but she doesn't know how she can fix this, and at the very least, she wants to say something to Loki, soothe the fears that are building inside of him, but she can't bring herself to lie to him. Not when he clearly knows more about Asgardian physiology than she does.

"Should you take him to -?"

"He won't survive the journey between realms."

"But he needs -"

"_Time_," Loki says, his voice shaking. "He's going to be fine. He's the _King_. He's always been the stronger one, _always_. If you can survive then he can too. He'll be _fine_."

Natasha shifts closer to Loki and pulls him against her, her arms wrapped tight around him as she tries to keep his panic at bay. They have to do something - they can't wait here until Thor wakes up. He should at least be transferred to a hospital, or somewhere, _anywhere_, more comfortable than the concrete ground of this piazza. Maybe Kadin can come via the bifrost and bring medicines for Thor.

Loki slams his fist against Thor's chest again, and this time he leaves a small dent in the metal.

"Wake _up_!" he yells. "Wake up you _imbecile_!"

Natasha rests her cheek against Loki's shoulder, her arms still around him, and tries to blink away the prickling in her eyes. Just as her vision starts to blur however, she feels movement. She looks down and is sure that Thor's arm has changed position. She turns her attention to his face, and his mouth twitches, just slightly, but enough for a small flicker of hope to ignite within her. The flicker becomes a flame when a long breath is exhaled, mingled with the faintest of groans as the air catches at Thor's vocal chords.

"Thor?" Loki sounds younger than Natasha has ever heard him, and he's frozen in position, not daring to move. Maybe he thinks he's imagined Thor's movement, and is refusing to get his hopes up before presented with proof. There is no greater proof than the sight of Thor's eyelids flickering open, his blue eyes slightly duller than usual, but it's of no consequence. Thor's mouth stretches into the smallest of smiles.

"Brother?"

"Yes?"

"You saved me?"

"Yes."

Thor finds one of Loki's hands and clasps it between his own, closing his eyes and exhaling softly. "Thank you."

Loki wipes impatiently at his face with his free hand. "I only did it because I don't want to be King. I'd have to leave here and..." he swallows, looking up at the sky again. "And we already know that I make an awful king."

Thor shakes his head gently. "Brother, after tonight, I think it is safe to say that you would make a fine king."

Loki lets out a short harsh laugh of disbelief.

"But more importantly than that, Brother, you are a good man."

Natasha smiles and presses a kiss against Loki's jaw, her hands moving to rub his shoulders soothingly, now that the panic is over. Thor closes his eyes to rest, but nobody moves, not even when the fire brigade jogs past with a hose to tackle the blaze in the vaults. Soon, news filters through of the deployment of a team of agents to the Desta 535 base, and shortly after that comes the news that the mission was successful, with hostages freed and all others detained. Eventually, Loki gives permission for Thor to be transferred to a military hospital to rest, and as they load Thor into the back of the ambulance, Loki climbs in after him, followed by one of the medics.

Tony is the first to break the silence.

"Pizza, anybody? I feel like we should get pizza."


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: **Posting this earlier than anticipated because I need closure god dammit. Just wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone who's reviewed, especially those of you who review like clockwork whenever I post a chapter. Sharing this with you guys has been awesome fun and I've loved every minute of it. In other news, I'm going into hospital tomorrow for about five days or so, (oh woe is me etc etc) but the point is, the lack of streaming capability will leave me with no choice but to crack on with a couple of Blackfrost oneshot ideas I've had brewing for a while. So keep an eye out for those because they'll hopefully be appearing soon. Anyway, just want to say thanks again, and I hope you enjoy this final piece of the jigsaw, as it were.

* * *

**Golden**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

The car stalls, throwing Natasha forward, her seatbelt pulling harshly at her chest.

"I have no use for this!" Loki snaps, slamming his hand against the steering wheel. "What's the point?"

"You're doing well. Try again."

Loki turns the key in the ignition, his jaw clenched, eyebrows contorted into a scowl. The engine roars into life and Loki puts it into first, then pulls away, the tyres squealing against the tarmac. When the engine starts to whine, there's a jerky shift into second, but as they gain speed, and he starts to relax, the ride becomes smoother, and the shift into third is nearly unnoticeable.

"You see?" Natasha says. "You're a natural."

Loki says nothing, just stares at the road ahead, his eyes occasionally flicking down to the speedo, where the needle is hovering around the fifty mark.

"You can only go fifty five down here," Natasha says, pre-empting any law breaking before he pushes the boundaries too far.

"Scared?" he asks.

"Not at all," Natasha replies, "But there's a set of lights about two hundred yards ahead that you might wanna slow down for…"

After a few seconds, Natasha feels the car lose speed, and they come to a smooth stop in front of the lights, Loki tapping his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel. Natasha smirks and leans back in her seat, quite sure now that she can leave Loki to it. He's learned fast, naturally, but his perfectionism gets in the way of his enjoyment. Still, they've got a good few days before he needs to be ready, and there's a driving licence at HQ with his name on it, once Natasha's happy with his skill level.

The lights turn to green, and they pull away smoothly; Natasha even catches Loki glancing in the mirrors. She smirks, and it does not escape his attention.

"What?" he asks, his eyes flicking over to her, and then back to the road.

"Nothing," she says with a smile. "You're doing great."

"You expected anything less?"

"It takes most people a few months to learn properly," she tells him, her attention half on the road, just in case he finds himself distracted.

"I'm not most people."

"I know," Natasha replies.

Loki shifts up a gear, and then places his arm on the armrest, his hand open and inviting. Natasha takes his hand, interlacing their fingers, and leans her head against his shoulder, watching as the world outside races by.

"You missed the exit," she says softly, after a while.

"I know," he says. "But we don't need to stop. Not yet."

* * *

It's nice to wake up next to him in a comfortable bed. The soft light of the morning filters through the curtains, and Loki inhales deeply, the sound soothing, tranquil. Natasha rolls over and lays her head against him, smiling into his skin as she realises that as of tomorrow, they can wake whenever they like, do whatever they like, and go wherever they like. It's a type of freedom that she's never truly had, and certainly never been able to share with someone. The thought scares her, more than a little, much more, if she's completely honest, but if she's not a little apprehensive then there's no sense of adventure.

The first word of the day, as it has been for the past couple of weeks, is "Coffee?"

This morning, the mumble comes from Loki.

Natasha sighs and slings her arm over him, too warm and content to get out of bed. "Five minutes," she murmurs.

"You said that last time. And it was another hour before I got my coffee."

"You make it then," she sighs.

"I made it yesterday."

Natasha groans. "Can't you use your magic?"

"But it's not my turn," he says, and she can hear the smirk in his tone. "Besides, you can't abuse the magic. That's not the point of it."

Natasha lifts her head up to look at him, her eyebrow raised in disbelief. "Seriously?"

He opens his eyelids a crack, and says "Seriously."

Natasha rests her head on his chest once more, her fingers trailing against his skin. She's making the most of the morning – tomorrow they have to be out of the apartment at five thirty. She's quite sure they'll have drunk a gallon of coffee between them before they even make it out of the door, so for now, she is content to lay here, until Loki grows impatient and makes the coffee himself.

She presses her lips to his skin gently, and there's something in the way his breathing changes that lets her know, without even looking, that there's a smile tugging at his lips. She kisses him again, and his arm tightens around her, pulling her closer.

"If you think that's going to get you out of making -"

Natasha cuts him off, pressing her lips to his, his hand coming to rest against the nape of her neck, pulling her closer. She deepens the kiss and he groans softly, contentedly into her mouth, his other hand grazing against her thigh.

"Coffee can wait," he says when she breaks for breath. "Coffee can definitely wait."

* * *

She leans back in her chair, her office walls empty and plain, completely devoid of notes and maps. All of her brass thumb tacks have been wrenched out of the plaster, and left in a small pot on her desk. She opens and closes the drawers, to ensure she's not left anything behind, but she's been quite thorough. Her gun sits on her desk, the empty magazine lying next to it. She brushes her fingers against the cool metal, almost as though she's saying goodbye, and then she laughs at herself, for getting attached to a weapon.

"Ready?" Loki asks softly.

"Yeah," she replies, frowning slightly. "I think so..."

She gets up, and there's a weird feeling swirling around in her chest. She knows she definitely wants this, knows that it's the right thing to do, is certain that she'll never regret it, but all the same, she can't help but feel sad, and even a little lost. Her entire life as she knows it is about to change, and she's essentially putting all her eggs in the basket that is Loki. She knows she can come back to this, and that she probably will at some point, but to be leaving, for a new type of life, without any real idea of when she'll be coming back doesn't sit well in her brain.

Ever since New York she's had a firm set of friends who she's spent nearly all of her time with. She's grown used to them, and their ways, and to be running off into the sunset, as it were, leaving them behind, seems strange. She's not sure what she'll do without Tony's quips, Steve's sensibleness, or breakfasts with Bruce. Having Clint around has made the whole thing seem like it's hardly work at all. It's been fun.

And now she's leaving.

Loki holds out a hand and she takes it, slinging her bag across her shoulder. She takes one last look around, then wheels her chair under her desk. She looks at Loki, not expecting him to understand her reluctance to leave, after all, this place has never held any happy memories for him. For her, however, it's the closest thing to a home she's ever had. She's spent so many hours in this office, trained every morning in the gym downstairs, walked the streets of the city every lunch break with Clint.

"Come on," Loki says quietly, pulling her gently towards the door. Natasha follows, and she finds that once she takes the first step away from her old life, the ones that follow are a lot easier. She's fully prepared to keep putting one foot in front of the other until she reaches the exit, but when she gets to the main room, everybody's there, waiting for her.

"Didn't think you'd get to sneak out without saying goodbye, did you?" Fury says, a disapproving look on his face.

"No..." Natasha lies. She glances along the line, and tries to come up with an excuse that will get this over and done with quickly. She doesn't handle goodbyes very well. She's not had much practice.

"Have fun," Fury says, and it's the same tone in which he issues orders.

"Yes sir," Natasha replies, standing to attention, her lips curving into a smile.

"And this is for you," he says to Loki, handing him a small card. Loki takes it, and frowns at it in confusion.

"What is it?"

"Driver's licence. Agent Romanov, or _Miss_ Romanov, should I say, tells me you're capable enough to have one."

"What do I do with it?" Loki asks.

"Put it in your wallet and hope you never need it," Fury replies.

Loki slips the licence into his pocket, his expression still confused. Natasha smiles, and Fury moves away. Steve is next in line.

"Be sure to send us a postcard," he says quietly, his arm still held fast against his chest by his sling. He glances up at Loki and gives him a courteous, if slightly stiff nod, which Loki returns.

"Yeah, I will," Natasha says.

"And don't stay away too long," Steve adds, becoming slightly more animated, his face lighting up with a small spurt of energy. For a moment, he looks just like Captain America. And then it fades, but not entirely. "Not sure how we're gonna get by without you."

"I know, right?" Natasha replies. "You'll keep 'em all in check though, won't you?"

"I can try," Steve sighs, and it's clear that he already knows he'll be fighting a losing battle. "See you around." He gives her a small salute, which Natasha returns, before she moves on to Bruce. She knows that Tony will look out for him, but as she takes in his appearance, the bags under his eyes that suggest he hasn't slept well for a long while, his pallid complexion, she can't help but feel she ought to stay, just for a little longer, just to make sure he doesn't dwell for too long on his time as the Hulk.

"Bon voyage," he says softly. His dark eyes twinkle with a sense of mischief, and Natasha knows that he's going to be just fine. "Text me if you end up in Calcutta, I know a few good places to eat. And a few places that you really, really shouldn't..."

Natasha laughs, and promises to text him. "Look after yourself," she says, catching his eye and turning on her steely, serious expression, just for a moment. He nods, runs a hand through his hair, and Natasha knows that there's no more to say on the matter.

Tony is the same as ever, sporting his faded Def Leppard t-shirt and a pair of jeans. He shrugs at Natasha and she gets it. There's no small talk that can possibly amount to a half decent farewell after everything they've been through, so what's the point?

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he says at last, his eyebrow quirked as he eyes Natasha, and then Loki.

Natasha laughs. "So that's pretty much carte blanche to do _anything_, right?"

"Pretty much," Tony agrees, nodding, and then he sighs in feigned wistfulness. "Romeo and Juliet, heading off into the sunset."

"Can you please _stop_ with the couples that end up dead?" She's not superstitious, but really, she'd prefer to be compared to people with a slightly more cheerful story.

"Fine," Tony says, rolling his eyes. "Ron and Hermione, heading off into the sunset."

"_What_?"

"You wanted a couple with a happy ending!"

Natasha shakes her head and glances back at Loki who has given up trying to understand any of Tony's references. If she's being honest she'll miss them, she'll miss _him_, and she'll especially miss his brashness that amazingly never actually seems to offend. She'll miss them all, truth be told, Tony has always seemed to demand more attention than the others, but that's just how he is.

She's more than a little surprised that Thor's made the trip down. His arm is healed now, something which he probably owes to the magic rocks of Asgard, but there is a slight shadow to him, as though his injuries are lurking far beneath the surface and he's too proud to let them see the light of day.

"Didn't expect to see you here," Natasha says to him.

"Well how else was I supposed to wish my brother fair fortune on his journey?" he booms. "I knew he wouldn't come to Asgard to say goodbye!"

Natasha turns to look at Loki, who has his hands in his pockets, his eyes narrowed. He's standing a little way back, and Natasha's quite sure that he's already considered doing a disappearing act several times, just to avoid the display of brotherly affection. Thor is having none of it - he steps past Natasha and seizes Loki, pulling him into a tight embrace. There's snickering as Loki pulls a face of disgust, his arms trapped at his sides while Thor seemingly squeezes the air out of him. After a moment, Thor releases him, though keeps a firm grip on Loki's upper arms. When he talks to him, he bows his head just slightly, so he can look his brother in the eye.

"You _must_ return for Mother's birthday, and bring Natasha. Show her what a real party is."

"Yes all _right_," Loki says, squirming away from Thor. "Let _go_ of me."

Thor complies, the smallest of smirks on his face as Loki smooths his t-shirt and adjusts the collar of his jacket. He catches Natasha's eye and winks, but she knows better than to laugh. She's got a hellishly long journey ahead with Loki, and it wouldn't do to put him in a bad mood before they've even started.

Last, but never ever least, Clint is waiting for her, closest to the door, his expression unreadable. They've worked together for years, will work together again, she knows that, but it still feels like the end of an era. This indefinite hiatus is all the more scary because she _doesn't_ have an alarm set for one day in the future when she has to get up and come back in to work and pick up where she left off. The scariest thing is that she might _never_ return, if she doesn't want to, or if it never seems convenient. Her eyes meet Clint's, and she can tell that the same worries are racing through his mind - how does one adjust to such a drastic change after all this time? But his face melts into a smile and he pulls Natasha into a fierce, bone crushing hug, the press studs of his jacket digging into her skin.

"You'll be back eventually," he murmurs. "You won't be able to help yourself."

"Yeah," Natasha says. "I know."

"Enjoy it," he tells her, giving her an extra squeeze. "And tell me what it's like...a normal life."

Natasha pulls away from him. "You think _this_ is gonna be normal?"

Clint shrugs. "As normal as you'll ever get."

Natasha concedes that he has a point, and then Clint turns away from her.

"Loki," he says, quietly, but with confidence. He holds out his hand, and Natasha can't believe what she's seeing. Apparently she's not the only one, because she swears she hears Tony whisper a soft _holy shit_ in the background.

Loki looks down at Clint's hand, then up at his face, and, after a moment's hesitation, he steps forward and shakes it. The contact lasts for less than a second, but it's enough, it's more than enough, and Natasha lets out a shaky breath when he steps back again, and no punches have been thrown. Her own hand automatically finds Loki's and she moves closer to the door, thinking it's probably best to quit while they're ahead. She raises a hand in farewell, and tries not to focus too much on the mixture of 'bye's and 'see ya's, before ducking out of the room, and leaving it all behind.

* * *

The departure lounge is frantically busy, people rushing by, parents dragging children towards the gates, staff cleaning up after the hoards. They manage to find a couple of seats in the corner, near a group of backpackers, laughing and joking in Finnish, souvenirs dangling from their rucksacks. It's not long before Loki's patience starts to wither away, his fidgeting on the hard plastic chairs a tell tale sign.

"I don't see why we couldn't just -"

"Because we're doing it _properly_. I'm not gonna arrive everywhere in a cloud of smoke."

"You just don't know how to travel in style," Loki mutters.

Natasha rolls her eyes and pulls her iPad out of her bag. She doesn't get ten minutes to flick through a few apps before Loki is shifting again in his seat, the zips of his jacket scratching against the chair.

"Show me again where we're going," Loki says, resting his chin against her shoulder.

Natasha closes her pinball game and opens the map, zooming out from their current glowing blue dot until all the continents are visible. "We're here," she says, pointing them out, "And we're going to fly down here," she zooms in on the southern hemisphere. "To Sydney."

"Sydney," he says, reaching across to zoom in further. "What's Sydney like?"

"I don't know, I've never been. That's the point."

"And when we get there? What do we do?"

"Whatever we want."

"And after that?"

"We go somewhere else."

Loki nods. "Sounds good."

"You'll probably want to do some painting," Natasha continues, closing the maps app and opening up Angry Birds. "There are some amazing landscapes there, completely different to New York or Paris..."

Loki watches over her shoulder as she boredly sends birds catapulting towards their fate, as final calls for overdue passengers ring out over the tannoy. After a few minutes, he starts reaching across to take turns, swearing under his breath when he misses, and smirking against her when his aim is true. It's not long before Loki has relieved her of the iPad entirely, his tongue between his teeth as he concentrates on ensuring he gets three stars on every single level.

By the time they're in the air, he's progressed further than Natasha ever has in the entire time she's had the damn thing. Natasha taps her fingers impatiently against the armrest, staring out of the small round window at the clouds below.

"Are you gonna be like this the whole flight?" she asks impatiently, when he flicks yet another bird to its demise. She reaches to take the iPad away from him, but he leans towards the aisle, his eyes never leaving the screen.

"One more," he says, holding up a hand to stall her. Natasha sighs and folds her arms. Had she known what a mistake it would be to introduce him to the iPad she would have left it at home, foregoing pinball for the next however many months quite happily if it meant she would actually get some conversation out of him on their flights.

"So is this what's it's come down to?" she asks. "You trying to subjugate the planet of the little green pigs?"

At this, Loki looks up from the iPad, casting a steely glare in Natasha's direction.

"What?" she asks, "Too soon?"

Loki says nothing, but slips the iPad into the seat pocket in front of him, his hand soon finding Natasha's and lacing their fingers together. He leans against her, looking out of the window as well, watching as wisps of vapour catch against the wings, the sun shining bright and golden in the sky.

* * *

**The End**


End file.
